


Hearts & Wrists

by Chessie_Lynne



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Body Image, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic At The Disco (Band), Past Rape/Non-con, Pete and Patrick (Fall Out Boy), Peterick, Rape Recovery, Romance, Ryden, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Smut, fall out boy - Freeform, mentioned rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1923618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chessie_Lynne/pseuds/Chessie_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's certain things that you just don't up and tell people. You don't tell people that you're sleeping with your sister. You don't tell people what you got them for Christmas. And you certainly don't tell them you're suicidal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kings of America

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _**UPDATED AND EDITED ON APRIL 10TH 2015**_   
> 

**Patrick**

There's certain things that you just don't up and tell people. You don't tell people that you're sleeping with your sister. You don't tell people what you got them for Christmas. And you certainly don't tell them you're suicidal. Not unless you want to find yourself a nice home in a treatment center.   


Who wants that? Who wants to wake up every morning in an unfamiliar room that smells of latex and medication? I, for one, do not. And that's why I keep my mouth shut. 

What are you supposed to say, anyhow? _'Hey, guys. Yeah, I just thought I would let you know that I'm suicidal. And anorexic. And I have countless sharp objects in my arsenal that I can use on my skin if I need a release.'_. Yeah, something tells me that wouldn't fly.

And so I stay silent. 

What they don't tell you about having alone time, is it's worse than anything imaginable. You're left alone with your thoughts, and that's more toxic than any chemical in a lab. Your mind could kill you just as easily as cyanide. 

Possibly the one thing that's been so remarkably hard to cope with is that my wife, Elisa, left in the dead of night. In all honesty, I should have seen it coming from a mile away. Primarily because when the going gets tough for me, I turn everything off and shut everyone out. A defense mechanism, I suppose, but I should have made an exception for my wife, the one person on this godforsaken planet that has loved me so selflessly through everything. Problem number one is that when presented with a daunting emotional challenge, I end up turning into a cynical prick. Therein lies our problem, I find. Me. 

I reluctantly answer everyone's text messages and phone calls, just to ensure no one drops by my house. Guaranteed, someone would come by and make sure I'm okay. Strangle secrets out of me when I'm not. Especially Pete. 

_Pete._

I'm not sure if he knows who I am anymore. For that matter, I'm not even sure I know who I am anymore. Pete'll Skype me, and comment on how much weight I seem to have lost-- a compliment, really-- or how tired I look. Well, no shit, I'm tired. I've been up for 36 hours straight. Why? I can't say for certain. I know that the word _'die'_ has been toiling around in my mind for some time. I've never gotten to this point in my life before of being so low that the option to end it all has been standing above everything else, including therapy and medication, on a table painted in gold. It's been bad before, but this is a new ball game entirely. I think that somewhere between watching the blood mix with water so artistically as it slips down my inner thigh, wrapping around my knee as it hits the white ceramic of the bathtub and finds the drain and the salty taste of my fingers slipping over my tongue towards the back of my throat that I've decided that I can't keep torturing myself like this. It'd be much easier to just...End it, wouldn't it? 

* * *

Somehow, I managed to get the strength up to go up to my bedroom from my semi-permanent placement on the couch, and sit on my balcony. I pull the door to the side, and I step out into the crisp August air. _iIt's gorgeous tonight,_ I think as I sit down in one of the rickety old white chairs sat in the corner. My hand comes to my face to both swat at a pesky mosquito and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. My stomach emits a low gurgle, but I ignore it. It's been almost 2 days without food, and I can manage just a few hours more.

My eyes turn skyward, and watch the stars twinkle and glimmer, in an entirely different universe of their own. Existing and burning brightly-- kinda like I used to. I think for a moment that I see a small bird zoom across my vision, and I smile to myself. It's incredible, really. That these are some of the final sights my eyes will ever see.

A light breeze strikes my right side with force, and I shiver, closing my black cardigan over my chest just a little more to shield me even a little bit. I smell something familiar, and I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it's rain in the distance. That's something I've always really taken a liking to-- the smell of rain on a warm evening. I close my eyes and allow my mind to be whisked back to that place of happiness that I've been missing for so long. Soaked head to toe, standing outside the stadium with my best and oldest friends, a smile on my face. Back then, those were the days that I'd lived for. The days that made me feel like a human, even for a short blink in time. I wasn't some guy that sang in that band with Pete Wentz. I was Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph, and I was _living_. 

Shivering one last time, I shuffle to my feet, and venture inside, the warmth of my bedroom encompassing me entirely, washing over me like a wave. I shake my cardigan off my shoulders, and I toss it aside, watching as it falls limply onto my bed. Stretching out the tension in my shoulders, I kick my shoes off, as well as my jeans and my shirt, and make a beeline for the bathroom-- This is it. It's really happening.

I like to think that I'm cunning enough to pull this off. But, lord, I am not. There's one outcome from this situation, and that is that I die, and a handful of people mourn my absence. There'll be a barrage of backlash that the boys I've grown to know as my brothers will have to deal with, and then there's the hypocrisy I've so blatantly displayed that's going to slap everyone across the lips. 

My feet feel like lead as I trudge towards the bathroom.  My chest is tightening, and my heart is hammering. Almost like my body's natural reaction to this-- telling me to stop. But I can't. I just... _Can't_. I've been stewing over this for far too long, and I've got my mind made up.

On my way to the washroom, I catch sight of myself in a small decorative mirror on the wall. Just a small glimpse, enough for me to stop and stare. I back up, and swivel to face the mirror, and I feel my stomach sink down to my feet. A shaky hand trails up to my face, worn pads of my fingers grazing over the cheeks that used to be full, now sunken in, my skin far more pale than I recall.From my face, my fingers almost instinctively travel down to my abdomen, swollen in the absence of food. Curiously, the tips of my fingers knead at the skin, my eyes not seeing the health risk, but rather nothing but the protrusion that visually appears to be fatty. Elisa should have taken all the damn mirrors when she left.

Sighing dejectedly at my impressively depressing reflection, I take my last steps towards the bathroom, and sit on the edge of the bathtub. The ceramic is chilled beneath my thighs. My small silver blade is sitting just where I left it, on the small shelf hung on the wall among my shampoos and body washes, a small amount of blood still left on the shiny surface from the last time I stuck it to my skin.

Suddenly...Everything's blurry. I can't tell whether it's the tears streaming down my face, or just the fact that the notion that I'm going to die is just too dizzying. I shake my head and grasp the thin shard of metal betwixt my thumb and forefinger, and I toy with it. Weaving it in and around my fingers, I catch the quick reflection of my eye in the silver. It gives me a start, and I realize that no longer do I know who is looking back at me-- And that's the most terrifying thing of all. I twist around so I'm sitting in the hollow of the tub, and I think one last time. I think of my mother's face. I think of her laugh, and her smile, and it brings me even a small amount of comfort the moment the blade digs deep into my vein.

The first thing I feel is not pain. Instead, it's the damp feel of the crimson blood dripping from my wrist. My eyes are squeezed shut against the curiosity, and for a moment I wonder if it's morbid of me to want to watch. I peek one eye open, and look down at my wrist, the blood pooling on the white ceramic, creating a startling contrast in colour. The rest of the world nearly dissolves around me while I watch the blood slip from my wrist down toward the drain, looking almost artistic in the swirls it manages to make while it travels. It's then that I feel the white hot pain of the blade plunged deep into my skin. It blooms at my wrist first and travels like a jolt of electricity up my arm, my whole body fighting to reject it. My heart jumps into my throat, hammering swiftly and harshly, my eyes ready to pop out of my skull. Everything is on fire, and I lack an extinguisher.  

 

**Pete**

Something's wrong with Patrick, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to determine that. The guy's barely spoken to anyone that he didn't explicitly have to in weeks. He answers my texts,but I have a bit of a sixth sense when it comes to this guy. Something is off, and I wish I knew what. To be honest, I'm scared of what I'll find out. He's lost that same gorgeous, amicable glimmer in his eyes that he used to possess and even with me, he rarely gives me those smiles anymore. It's weird to say, having known him for so long, but eventually you grow to miss the way someone's lips twist up into a grin, pushing their round cheeks up their face, small dimples poking in. And the sound he would make when he laughed. God, now it would be music to my ears.

I used to be the person who made him smile, who made him laugh, and that's just...Gone. 

I wonder if I've done something wrong. Something to cause him to hate me. Which sadly, is a possibility for me. I'm Pete Wentz after all. 

But I've never been _Pete Wentz_ to Patrick. I've always just been Pete. The guy who likes to goof off and make dumb sci-fi jokes and the guy who stays up 'til six AM, because Patrick had an idea for a song he wanted to share and develop. 

Maybe I'll text him. It's a shot in the dark, but maybe I can convince him to leave that goddamn house of his and go for Taco Bell or something. Anything. I just want to see his face again.

As I go to fish my phone out of my pocket, it begins to vibrate, and I see Patrick's name flash across the screen. With a smile, I press the small green 'answer' button, and press the phone to my ear. "Pat, hey--"  
"Pete you need to come over now."  
"What? You okay, buddy?" I ask, my blood running cold with the sound of his broken voice.   
"No-- Pete, please. I'm scared."  
"I'm on my way. What happened?"

_Silence._  

"Patrick," I urge. "what happened?"

_Silence._

Panic begins to set in to my bones, and I bolt off of the couch, grabbing my keys in my wake, not bothering with my jacket or calling Joe to come watch Hemmy for a few hours.   
"Patrick, I'm on my way. You need to tell me what happened," I plead, my voice wavering a little bit. I've never been much of a professional in situations like this. I've always been more erratic, which is nearly precisely the opposite of what should be done in a high energy, emotionally charged situation. 

Then, I hear a crackled whimper on the other line, and I know that at least Patrick is breathing. I heave a sigh of relief as I jump into my car and gun the engine, not thinking about anything but getting to Patrick. The phone is tossed onto the passenger seat and lit up on speaker. "There's so much blood," The small voice comes through the phone broken and used up. As though there's nothing left of him.   
"I'm coming, 'Trick. You're gonna be okay, you hear me? Don't hang up." I say, my voice calm and collected, even though I'm having a total meltdown on the inside. What does he mean by so much blood? Who's blood? Elisa's? His own? And why didn't he call an ambulance?

* * *

I barely have time to throw the car into park before I'm out of the vehicle and bounding up to my friend's home. The windows are dark except his bedroom, where there's a dull orange glow behind the curtains. The door's locked, but thankfully I know where he keeps the spare. I reach above my head, and feel around the dusty ledge until my fingertips come into contact with a smooth metal key, which I immediately grasp and shove in the lock, shouldering the door open. 

"Patrick?" I call into the empty home. No response. I start at the steps, jogging up two at a time in order to make it quick enough. When I breach the top of the stairs, I see that his bedroom door is cracked just a smidgen, and I throw it open, my eyes frantically darting around for his undoubtedly frail body. God, he's lost so much weight. Too much. 

Then, I see him, I catch a glimpse of the top of his disheveled ginger coloured hair, tipped against the bathroom wall, eyes closed. My body snaps in that direction, and as I push the door the rest of the way open, my stomach does about fifty flips, ending in one precarious knot. He was right about one thing-- the amount of blood that's spilled out of him is ridiculous. 

Without thinking, I strip my shirt from my body and I tear a chunk from it, taking the piece and wrapping it around his arm as tight as I can, creating a tourniquet, and the other part I hold to the wound itself.

I look up into his eyes, despite everything my mind is telling me. I see the fear, the desperation, the thankfulness, and the light getting dimmer and dimmer.

"Hold on, 'Trick. You're gonna be okay." I say, even though I want to scream 'you dumbass! What the hell were you thinking?' from the top of my lungs.

I'm not sure when I ended up fishing my phone out of my pocket, but I did, and I'm on the phone with 911. She's speaking in calm words to me, which apparently I need. I didn't notice until now that tears were profusely slipping from my eyes.   
Not wanting to listen her anymore, I set the phone down and hold Patrick's hands in mine. A vocalist, I'm not. But I remember that in my times of turmoil music had proven to be the most effective form of therapy for me. Maybe, just maybe I could give that same sense of comfort to Patrick, if even for a moment in time.

"He thought he was the King of America. Where they pour Coca Cola just like vintage wine. Now I try hard not to become hysterical, but I'm not sure if I am laughing or crying. I wish that I could push a button and talk in the past and not the present tense and watch this hurtin' feeling disappear." I sing to him in a soft voice. I know he loves this song, he loves Costello. And I can immediately feel him relax beneath my hands. I just hope it's not because he's losing his fight. Jesus Christ, Pat... _Don't you fucking die on me._


	2. Awake

**Patrick**

I can't remember how long it's been since I've felt a thing. I remember laying in the bathtub, the indescribable pain shooting up my arm, and I remember someone sitting beside me, my hand enveloped in theirs, their voice singing Elvis Costello to me. It's blurry...But I can make out a face, and then it all hits me with unrelenting force-- the man who found me was Pete. 

Did I call him? I...I don't remember calling him. But, I must have. There's no other way he would have known to come to my home at that very moment. 

Apparently I'm still alive, given that I'm currently processing everything. At the moment, I can't tell whether that fact is a gift, or a curse. 

All at once, my senses return. I feel the sharp, dry sensation of oxygen being forced into my lungs, the stiffness of my unused muscles, and the dull, throbbing ache in my skull. There's beeping, and whirring around me, and it dawns on me that it's the sound of hospital machines. _God fucking damn it._

Slowly, I open my eyes, and I find that there's a party of somber, haggard looking people at the edge of the room, muttering to each other. I see my mom, I see my sister, and brother, and in the very corner, curled up in a chair, is Pete. I shuffle around a little bit, frustrated that these scratchy blankets are constricting my movements. "Fuck," I mutter under my breath as I kick my legs around in an attempt to sit up.   
In that moment, every head swivels to look at me, eyes all wide. "Oh, honey," my mother whimpers, trotting up to my bedside. My sister does the same, and clamors up to me, nearly tripping over herself, tears glistening in her eyes.   
"M-Mom," I murmur, wincing against the pain in my skull.   
"Shh, it's okay, Patrick. Just relax. You're okay." She says, reaching out to smooth my hair down. _You're okay. You're okay. You're okay._ The words reverberate off the walls of my mind, and send icy jolts of uneasiness into my stomach. Okay is the last thing I wanted to be. 

My sister tries to touch my hand, and I immediately retract it, looking up at her in confusion. The look in her eyes transforms from sympathetic straight into a concoction of hurt and bewilderment. Good. I hate this sympathetic bullshit. 

I try to relax against my pillow, but it's awfully lumpy, and stiff, and I would rather just be comfortable. Between the blankets, and the pillow, my migraine, and my wrist on fire, fuck, I could use a drink.   
"M-Morphine." I stutter weakly, looking at the tube attached to my forearm. "Need more." I add, a pleading look in my eye.   
"Relax, honey, the doctor will be in soon."   
Rolling my eyes, I settle against the pillow, and heave a long sigh. I don't want to see doctors and nurses. I want to be in the fucking ground. Honestly, is that too much to ask?   
Then, it dawns in me. Maybe I didn't want to be dead, after all. Or, as my eyes shift tiredly over to Pete, who's sleeping on the opposite side of the room, that maybe I did want to die, just in the arms of someone I know and lov--- Trust. Yeah, that's what I meant. 

A man wearing a long white lab-coat strides into my room, a clipboard fixed on his hip, eyes narrowed as he looks over it. "Mister Stump," he says with a faulty smile. He doesn't want to be here as much as I do.   
"Hm?" I more-or-less whine.  
"I'm doctor Bradshaw. Nice to finally meet you. You've been out for quite some time, there."  
Quite some time? What? Days? Weeks? How long have I been gone?  
"Your family here already knows, but you suffered from what we call a class 3 hemorrhage. And what that means, is that you lost roughly. 37% of your total blood. You were rushed into the ICU, and we preformed a blood transfusion for you, and induced a coma, so you could recover some." he explains. I feel the color drain from my face.   
This...This blood that's inside me...It's not mine. It belongs to someone else. It's like I'm a physical stranger within my own skin, and that's terrifying. I shudder, and look down at my hands, one of them bandaged.   
"Now, that you're up and okay, we're going to keep you here for another few days for observation, and treatment."  
I nod, not knowing what else to do. I'm stuck. Stuck like a rat in a cage, while people in white poke and prod at me, test me and try to tell me what's wrong with me like I don't already fucking know.   
"Now, mom," Bradshaw says turning to my mom. Can we step outside? I'd like to discuss some treatment options with you. If you present them to him, there's a chance he'll be more adept to selecting one, rather than rejecting them all off the bat simply because I'm a doctor." he says almost diplomatically. Fuck, this guy's got an ego alright. I shoot him the most seething look I can manage in this compromised state, and watch as he leaves, my mother and siblings in tow. 

Finally, I can breathe. I'm alone.

Well, aside from Pete, but he's unconscious. I find myself wondering what the hell happened that night, and what he knows. It's obviously still fresh and prominent in his mind, otherwise he wouldn't be right in front of me. I just...I wonder if there was anything said that was otherwise secret. Why he sang to me, if he really thought I was going to die. But more importantly, why he didn't just _let_ me. 

 

**Pete**

As consciousness slowly starts to drift back to me, I'm reminded by the sharp ache in my shoulder blades that I'm in Patrick's hospital room. Thank God, though. I'd had just about enough of the nightmares where I constantly have to fish my mest friend out of a pool of his own blood.   
Patrick was admitted to Mercy Hospital and Medical Center 5 days ago, and and I haven't moved since then. The nurses were kind enough to let me shower, and gave me a stretcher to sleep on for a night or so, but other than that, I've taken up residence in the small leather chair in the corner of the room. Andy and Joe came to visit one day. Of course, they took pity on me for being the one to have found him, but I brushed it off. Patrick needed me, and I was there, no questions asked. Our mutual friend, Brendon Urie even came to see how Patrick was holding up. He was here earlier, and the look of shock on his face was gut-wrenching. 

 _"What...What happened to him?" Brendon asks, his eyes never leaving Patrick's still body on the bed. I bite my lip in nervousness. Should I tell him?_  
_"He...Well, uh, he tried to commit suicide, Bren." I reply slowly. Brendon's eyes snap over to mine, a fierce edge in them._  
_"I'm sorry, man. Wow, I mean...I had no idea. He's okay, though, right?"_  
_"Yeah, he's fine. Just...Nearly died. Way too much blood loss," I say softly. Brendon looks back to Patrick, reaches out to touch his foot through the blanket._  
_"I don't know what to say. I just...I hope he's gonna be okay when he wakes up, you know?_ "  
_"Me too, Brendon. Me too."_

My eyes flutter open, and I resume a sitting position, and I look up, and find myself alone. That's a plus, I think. As much as I love Patrick's family, I'd appreciate some time alone to talk to him. My eyes creep up to his thin looking body beneath the covers, and I see his face, his blue-hazel eyes just barely open, _locked_ on mine. Suddenly, all traces of sleep leave my body, and I'm snapped to the present.   
"P-Patrick?" I ask nervously, rising to my feet. I stumble a little bit as I attempt to gain my bearings and venture forward, so I'm closer to him. I swear, I've never seen a body so thin in my life. What happened to the little roundness in his cheeks that I grew to love? He looks so frail and brittle, that I'm afraid to touch him for fear of shattering him.   
"Pete," Patrick says, his voice more of a whisper. That stings in itself. His voice-- it was what drew me to him all those years ago. A falsetto of two octaves? Damn. When he sings, people listen. When he speaks, it's just as incredible. To me, anyways. Now, however, he just sound hollow. Like a broken shell of a man that once was. 

"Hey, buddy." I say, offering a smile, and I swear, I see the ghost of a small smile on his face.   
"How long have I been out?" he asks, seemingly straining to just get the words to form in his throat.   
"5 days," I reply, circling around to the side of the bed, which I can talk to him more clearly. "But it's okay, buddy. Just take a breather and relax, okay? We can talk all you want tomor--"  
"Why am I still alive?" he suddenly cuts in with. It's like every last molecule of oxygen in my lungs is siphoned out, leaving me breathless and aching. How could he just say something like that? I mean, I understand the general curiosity. He was near death, but doesn't he remember calling me? Begging me to come over to help him?  
"I-I...You called me, 'Trick. You asked me to come over."  
"And you didn't just leave me?"  
"No! God, no. I wasn't gonna let you just die...That voice is too precious." I say, trying to give him a little pick me up. God knows he needs it. He pauses, and I see the look in his eyes. He's thinking. And when Patrick gets in his own head, it's either a gift, or a curse.  
"But why?" he asks softly, tears pooling upon his lower eyelids.

Alright. Curse. 

And for the first time in my life, I don't have an answer for something Patrick asked me. Did he honestly, truly want to die that severely that he questioned my attempt to save him?  
"Because, Patrick," I begin nervously, chewing on my lip. "I'm not just gonna...give up on you."   
He stares up at me, sadness in his eyes. I'm not getting through to him. _ShitShitShit_  
"Look. In all the years that I've known you, I've learned one thing. That _you_  are the most resilient person alive. You've battled through everything, and you've won battles against your own worst demons. I know you can do this. It sucks right now, but in a few while you'll be alright again. Come hell or high water, I promise you that I'm gonna help you get fixed."


	3. Music or the Misery

**Patrick's POV**

A pale yellow light began to flitter into the hospital room that I've taken up residence in for the past three days. Well, the past three days that I've actually been conscious. My eyes open, but just barely, and catch the little specks of dust swirl and twirl in the slight breeze, just dancing in the sunlight. And for a moment, I wish I was that free. But here I remain, completely barred to this wasteland by people I don't know, and don't trust.   
It's like a living hell, this place. I wake up every morning surrounded by the same shrill beeping and whirring of the machines around me. Then my day begins with a nurse serving me with a tray of breakfast that I'm likely not going to stomach.   
On the upside, my wrist has stopped hurting for the majority of the time that I'm on my morphine. That drug is a bloody miracle, I swear. There's that upside, and the fact that Pete hasn't left the damn room since I got here. Even my mom and siblings go out to get some air every now and then, but not Pete. He's always right at the foot of the bed, engaging me in conversation, which I suppose I could appreciate, considering he'll talk about anything but what happened.   
A small grunt of exhaustion escapes my lips as I sit up and ball my hands into fists and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Slowly, I tighten my shoulder blades and draw them near the center of my back in a desperate attempt to feel a little less stiff from the night before. Shaking my muscles loose, I open my eyes a little wider, only to find that I'm alone in my room. And it's like in that moment, everything in the room got darker. If it was one thing I've learned from being here, it isn't how to fix myself, no. It's that being alone was something I don't do well. Even if myself and the person aside me aren't engaged in active conversation, it's nice to know that there's someone there. A person to catch me when I fall. My eyes drift up to the small circular clock on the wall just above the door, and I fixate my eyes on the thinnest hand, watching it tick around the numbers. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small plastic cup still half full of water from the night before. I reach out to grab it and I am immediately stopped by the sensation of white hot fire licking up my arm, blooming at my wrist and spreading throughout my chest. I mutter a vile curse word under my breath and immediately retract my hand. Sighing dejectedly, I collapse against the thin pillow on the bed, and fix my eyes upon a crooked tile in the ceiling, furrowing my brow at it. How could that have gone unnoticed for so long? I cannot be the first one to notice something so irritating, could I? The longer I fixate my eyes on new things and notice just how empty the room feels, there's a tugging on my heart, as though a rope has wormed its way beneath my rib cage and woven around my heart, squeezing and constricting it, threatening to cut the flow of blood altogether. For me, a man who had lived the majority of his life surrounded by noise, the silence that envelops me is nerve wracking, panic inducing, and gifts me with such crippling trepidation that I start to realize just how frightening loneliness can be. My heart rate increases, my limbs begin to shake, and a sheen sweat breaks out on my forehead, trickling down my temples. It's almost as if the oxygen in the room has been sucked out and replaced with noxious gasses, because suddenly my sense of direction becomes disoriented and shaky.   
"Mr. Stump?" I hear a distant voice call to me. My eyes snap to the door where a petite dark haired woman in purple scrubs is standing, approaching me with caution in her demeanor. Though I cannot snap out of my panic long enough to assure her that I'm fine, I do manage to swallow thickly in response.   
"Are you alright, Mr. Stump?" she asks, approaching the side of the bed, her eyes jumping frantically from screen to screen on the monitors and machines hooked to me.   
"Wentz," I manage to choke out, though I hardly realize what just left my lips.   
"E-Excuse me?" She asks, leaning in a shade closer to me, tilting her ear towards my mouth.   
"P-Pete Wentz. He was here."   
She backs up, and looks at the empty chairs surrounding the bed, and a look of sympathy crosses her face. Goddamn it, I wish people would stop with the sympathetic bullshit.   
"I think everyone went to get some showers and sleep, Mr. Stump."  
"No," I bark at her, throwing my arm out as if I stop her from leaving me alone in the silence. "You need to call." I beg, tears pooling in my eyes.   
Yet another look of confusion flashes across her thin baby blues, and she looks over her shoulder at the supervising nurse, clutching a syringe in her palm. Fuck, no...I don't want to be sedated. Coherency is far more preferable.   
"Pete. Call Pete." I manage, tilting my head back against the pillow, my eyes finally shutting.   
There's silence in the room before I hear her scuttle away, the door opening and shutting as she leaves the room.   
I cannot tell what measure of time has passed when the door finally opens again. I snap my head up to attention, and widen my eyes as I see Pete standing there, somewhat disheveled, but a smile painted on his face nevertheless.   
"Hey," he says softly, walking in further. In his hand is a long black case, shaped like his own acoustic guitar, and I can't help but smile at the fact that he brought a damn guitar up for me.   
He sets the guitar down and leans it against a chair, immediately striding up next to me. "I'm sorry I was gone. I don't think you would have wanted to operate me for much longer if I hadn't gone to shower." he jokes with a laugh. My eyes watch him carefully, studying his face, the worn features, the bright brown eyes that've currently studying my own face.   
"Hey, I know you were scared, but we're cool now, right?" he asked, smiling sincerely. "Look, I brought you somethin'."   
Pete strides away from my bedside again, only to grab the guitar. He gingerly opens the clasps holding the case shut and tips the lid up, exposing the sheen wood enveloped by red velvet. He looks down at it for a moment, as if admiring it's beauty before he clamps his hand around the neck and pulls it out.   
"Little something to brighten your day." He says softly, setting the case aside and sitting down with the guitar perched on his knee. He smiles softly and drags his thumb down the six strings, a very flat sound filling the room. I wince noticeably, and shake my head.   
"Eww," I groan. "Come on, man you don't know how to keep your guitar tuned?" I laugh, wiggling my torso so that I can sit up a bit more in the bed.   
"Shut up! It's been awhile, okay?" He fires back, noodling around with the tuning pegs. After a moment, he drags his thumb down the strings again, this time the sound that comes out is far richer and definitely not flat.   
"That's more like it." I say with a smile. Pete smiles pridefully and moves his fingers into the G Major chord shape and strums a few times, just testing the waters. Yeesh, it's like he's never played a guitar before.   
"You gonna serenade me or what?" I joke, my good hand searching around for the button that makes the bed move up and down. Pete laughs, and bites his lip, a gesture of nervousness that I've noticed within him.   
"Well actually," he begins, pulling out a small notepad from the pocket on his sweatshirt. "I was thinkin' that maybe we could write something."

**Pete's POV**

I suppose that I should have expected to get called back to the hospital. Hell, I should have expected to get called back the moment I left the room. But my little partner in crime was fast asleep, and I was beginning to smell pretty ripe. I was just jumping out of the shower when I got the call from the nurse. Naturally, panic set in the moment that I saw the hospital name flash across the call display box. Her voice was shaky when she explained to me that Patrick was in the middle of a severe panic attack, like she was nothing but sorry for the poor guy. She knows us, and I know that. She's the same nurse that got jittery from the moment that the ambulance pulled up into Emergency with Patrick.   
All I could think of before I left was that I needed to grab my guitar for him. Sitting with nothing but television all day must be hell for him, considering he's the type that needs to be creative. He needs to unlock his heart and let it spill out lyrically onto a page, or spill from his fingertips while he works out the kinks to a melody. He's that type of soul.   
I look up, and propose the idea of writing something with him, and immediately, it's like all the light in those eyes returns tenfold. It's like I'm looking at a 5 year old Patrick in a candy store, eyeing all the different types of candies and sugary treats. The corners of my lips tilt up into a wide grin at the sight, and I sit up in my chair a little bit.   
"Okay. Great, 'Trick. How's this?" I ask, forming a B Minor chord with my fingers, strumming down a few times before I quickly strum up and change the shape of my fingers to an E minor. I look up at him, and watch his critical eyes, and he waves his good hand in a signal for me to stop. Immediately I clap my hand over the strings, muting them and watching him for his reasoning.   
"Do B minor, D minor, D major, and then B minor again." he commanded, and I comply, hammering out the progression, and listen with intent ears for Patrick to start to hum. I keep the progression going while his eyes fall shut and he squints just a little, thinking hard. Then, his eyes snap open, and lyrics come spilling from his lips. And all be damned if I didn't get shivers when his voice filled the empty room.   
"My mind is set, memory can no longer save me. Remember the Thunder, and forget the pain. Downpour and let it wash away, in my evening rain." he sings to the beat, his voice lilting, and full. A smile crosses my face, and I think for a minute as I change the chord progression just a little as I add my own little lyrics into the ones he just wrote.  
"'Cause what else can you do? When your hunger turns to ash, and every memory you cherish burns in a toxic inferno? No! It's time to forget that pain, forget it and let the fire be drowned out by my evening rain." I sing back to him. Although I'm not much of a singer, Patrick doesn't care. We're creating.  
He smiles wider and nods. "That's it!" he laughs, bringing his good hand up to his face to card through his hair. His glasses are hanging low on his nose, and he looks as cute as ever. Wait a second-- cute? No, Patrick's not cute. Not to me, anyways. Right? That's not my deal. But his glasses and his bed-messed blonde hair and his bright eyes, still maintaining that fire they used to when he and I used to do this on a regular basis almost make me see him in a different light.   
"The Thunder has told me it is time, and I can't disobey it's might. My mind is made up, my heart is set, the pain and the fire will die with me in my evening rain, in the bloody evening rain." he tails off for me as I continue to play, my fingers transitioning from chord to chord as he sings.   
"Wow," I say, stopping the strings and jotting down the lyrics on the notepad. "that's the darkest thing we've written since Take This To Your Grave." I muse. He laughs.   
"No kidding. But hey, I need an outlet."   
I stop writing and look up at him, drawing my lip into my mouth.   
"No more, alright? You keep this outlet, you hear me?" I say seriously, my eyes locked to his. He stiffens up some, and I watch his hands squirm around beneath the blanket in nervousness. But he nods. And that's the best first step towards recovery that I could ask for.   
Suddenly, the door swings open, and both of us snap our neck's towards the unfamiliar person in the room. She's tall, green scrubs visible beneath her white labcoat. Her hair is wound into a tight bun, and her glasses are high on the bridge of her nose. If she was going for librarian-- she fucking nailed it.   
"Mr. Stump, nice to meet you. I'm doctor Hudson. I'll be your psychiatrist." She spewed, her voice simply dripping with malice. My eyes flicker over to Patrick, and it's immediately visible to me that he's put off by her sudden abrasive nature.   
"H-Hi," he stuttered, shifting uncomfortably.   
"How are you?" She asks with an obviously faulty smile on her face as she flips around a few pieces of paper on her clipboard.   
Patrick doesn't answer. Shit, I think, watching him completely start to tremble beneath the blanket, his lip almost unnoticeably quivering.   
"And who are you?" Hudson asks, snapping her attention to me, not even giving Patrick a chance to answer.   
"Pete. Patrick's friend." i reply, setting my guitar aside and coming to my feet. Being the gentleman that I like to think of myself as, I stretch out my hand for her to shake. Her eyes are icy as all hell as she grabs my hand and gives a terse nod as she shakes it. Geez, what is this lady's deal? She turns back to Patrick and then looks back to me almost instantly.   
"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave. I have to speak to Patrick alone." She explains, and I look to Patrick, shaking my head. The light in his eyes has dissolved entirely, leaving nothing but fear and panic in it's place.   
"Patrick, It's okay. I'll just be right outside the door." I say reassuringly, but he shakes his head.   
"N-No." Patrick replies, blinking rapidly to avoid what I'm certain are tears. "No, please."   
"I gotta go, 'Tricky. You're gonna be just fine." I say, stepping towards the door, but he let's out a small whimper that stops me dead in my tracks.   
"Let him stay."  
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that,"  
"Look, he obviously has no problem discussing his issues in front of me. What's the harm?" I argue with the doctor, unable to witness the fear in Patrick's eyes for a second longer. Her eyes nearly turn black, but switch a grunt, she finally nods, and stands at the edge of Patrick's bed, looming over him. Shaking my head at the absurdity of the woman's practice, I stride up and take my usual place at the side of Patrick's bed, and without warning, I feel a small hand slip into mine as the doctor starts discussing what happened.   
"Why did you attempt suicide, Mr. Stump?" She asks, looking down at her clip board. Patrick squeezes my hand a little tighter, as if the question is physically painful for him.   
"Mr Stump, I have other patients to tend to, could we hurry this up?" She barked, an eyebrow cocked.  
"Hey!" I retort, feeling Patrick's grip tighten. "He's your patient for the hour. Treat him like one, would you?"  
Patrick breathes a sigh next to me, but he's still trembling.   
"I-I don't know," He stutters finally. I don't know what came over me, but I assume it's my experience as a father that brought it on. When Patrick continued to hesitate, I slipped my arm around his shoulders and patted his side reassuringly.   
"It's okay," I tell him, urging him to open up. I just want the lady to do what she needs so she can leave him alone. Then, when he still doesn't say anything, I kneel down and look him dead in the eyes.   
"Tell me." 


	4. Remember Me

**Pete's POV**

One doesn't simply forget the blatant fear painted upon the face of their best friend. To forget the trembling in their cold fingers as they clutched to you for dear life. He still wouldn't breathe a word of his past to me, even though I practically begged him to. Come on, 'Trick. It's just me, I said softly, running my hand up and down his arm. 

Still, to no avail. 

I left the room, unable to keep my composure. I know that something has happened in that boy's life that was so shattering that it rendered him unable to speak to someone as close to him as I, and all it did to me was fill me with sadness. I've spent the better part of thirteen years learning Patrick Stump. I thought I knew him inside and out, reading him like a book, always finding hidden passages and even the mistakes, but still a beautiful piece of work with lilting words and harmonious metaphors. But as it would turn out, Patrick was missing a few pages right around the center, where I dared not to venture, apparently. Someone had taken these pages and ripped them straight from the spine and broke him to bits, set fire to his fragile heart, and I had never, ever thought that there would come a day when I would be faced with the fact that I did not know him as well as I had initially thought. 

* * * 

I find myself sitting outside the hospital room that I've called home for the last several weeks, nervously folding my hands over and over in my lap. I have no reason to be nervous, really. Patrick's being discharged today. I should be happy, right? And yet, something is acting like a knot, twisting and tightening my stomach into a ball of nerves. I cannot tell if I'm nervous by the fact that he's reentering an environment controlled only by himself, or if I'm nervous at the fact that he's going to hurt himself again. Most likely both. I do know that I'm terrified that I won't be able to help him the way he needs. 

It feels as though the white walls have gotten impossibly whiter, and are now squeezing, contracting, closing in on me. the floor seems to vibrate with stillness, but not the walls. The sounds that I should be accustomed to by now, the beeping, the whirring, the hushed tones of nurses, and sobbing of patients, it all seems to create this huge and terrifying calamity that only exists within the walls of my mind. My palms become slick with sweat as the reality of what this establishment is sets in. This is purportedly a haven for the ailing to retreat to when they require aid. And yet, people still die here. Constantly, daily. As sterile as they make this place out to be, it is ridden with sickness and volatile disease. To put it simply, if Hell smelled of latex, this is what it would look like. 

I'm snapped from my thoughts by the soft padding of feet out of the room before me. I snap my eyes away from the roof to set my sights upon Patrick, wearing the clothes he was admitted in, his glasses hanging loosely on the end of his nose.   
"Hey," I greet, standing up and offering a hand to him. He seems dizzy, like everything around him is spinning. And who could blame him? The poor boy has been through a hellish few weeks here.   
"Hey," he says back, but his voice is far softer. Nervous, even. As of it almost feels foreign for him to be talking to me. I suppose I see why, however. I've now witnessed him in his worst state, covered in tears and blood, near death. However I wish he could see that that changed nothing between the two of us. He's still the same old Patrick Stump in the hat and the loosely fitting red cardigan. He just has bandages on his wrists now.   
"We should get out of here," I say, taking a hesitant step towards him, my soles of my shoes tapping on the tile flooring, a sound that almost echoes within the tension between us that I do not know why exists. "Have you filled out your discharge papers?"   
Patrick nods, his glasses teetering impossibly on the tip of his nose. He reaches up and blushes a little as he uses his index finger to push the glasses further up the bridge of his nose.   
I smile, tilting my head towards the elevator just to the right of us in a gesture that says we should get going. He nods and silently follows me towards the open door. 

If it's one thing that I have noticed about Patrick, it's that the once quick witted and sharp man who was previously constantly on his toes with comebacks and razor sharp sass is now so...Reserved. He's closed off, and stuck within himself, it seems, and I wish I knew how to help him get that part of himself back. There was a light in those blue eyes of his that was previously unmatched with it's youthfulness. I don't know where that light has gone, but I know I wish it was back.   
The two of us ride down the elevator until we reach the lobby, where there are two huge sliding doors leading out to the parking lot. Still, Patrick remains silent. "So, I hope this is okay," I begin cautiously, watching him as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and watches the pavement beneath his feet. "Uh, the guys and I kind of decided that you need to be under watch for awhile."

**Patrick's POV**

Watched? What am I? A dog? The statement isn't exactly what I wanted to hear in this moment, but I suppose that the deeper I look into it, I can see Pete's reasoning. I can see that he and our other friends are deeply concerned for me, which I understand. I mean, I did try to off myself. They're bound to be worried. And not to mention, I can fight it and deny it all I want, but when it comes down to it, I don't even trust myself anymore.   
Pete and I wander through the maze of cars lined up in neat rows until we reach his SUV, parked tightly inside a stall at the end of a row, furthest from the hospital doors.   
"Wanted to enjoy the scenic walk?" I chide with a light chuckle. With countless empty spaces, Pete could have parked far closer to the entrance. He looks up at me, his eyes kind of surprised. Understandable, I suppose. I haven't said much of anything in awhile.   
He looks down at his feet some and chuckles. "Ah, yes. The gorgeous scenery of the urban concrete jungle."   
***  
Admittedly, I was worried that things would change while I was locked up in the hospital. In the sense of everyday things that I used to be accustomed to would change, and I wouldn't be ready for something of that caliber. I suppose that I've always just been the type of person who needs stability and changing environment has always been painfully scary for me. Which is strange, considering I'm a musician. My environment changes constantly. I sleep in a different bed every night while on the road. Then again, I didn't choose this profession. The man to my right chose it for me.   
Pete's hand clasped around the plated doorknob, and he twisted it, shouldering the door open. "Casa de Pete." he says, gesturing into the main foyer.   
"You act like I've never been here before." I say to him, stepping over the threshold and peer around the corner. Instantly, I can sense something is different than the last time I was here. I look down to the couch, where Hemmy is sleeping soundly, the photos on the wall remain the same, the carpeting is still the same beige color as the previous time I was here. What the fuck did he change?  
"You can take the guest room." Pete huffs, setting my suitcase at my feet. Still looking around, my eyes land on him, my brows furrow.   
"What?" he asks with a laugh in his voice. "You're my best friend, and I love you. But you can take your own damn suitcase to your bedroom." he laughs, taking his jacket off and hanging it up on the hooks beside the door.   
"That's it!" I exclaim, looking up at the hooks. He never had hooks before.   
"What...?"   
"You didn't have hooks beside the door."  
Pete watches me, his eyes questioning, confused. "Yeah, Megan put them in...I swear, 'Trick. That hospital has you stir crazy." he laughed before venturing deeper into the home. My hand clamps around the handle on the suitcase, and I lug it up the steps and down the hallways to the second door on the right. I didn't think that I packed so heavily, and looking back, I kinda feel bad for having Pete haul this thing around with him. Of course it didn't come without a bit of heckling. _Jesus, did you pack bricks? You know I have a washing machine, right?_  
I heave it up onto the bed, and unzip the main pocket, watching it practically pop open, vomiting my wardrobe up onto the bed. I dig around a little until I find the small package at the bottom of the bag, beneath a stack of jeans. My new prescription. I pull the bottle out of the bag and examine it a little bit, reading the label. _Patrick Stumph; Fluoxetine take two daily._ Prozac. This magic pill that's supposed to take all my problems away. It fixes anxiety, panic disorder and major depressive disorder. Well, according to my psychiatrist, anyhow. I've never been on medication for something before, unless you count Buckley's for a cold. But other than that, I've been clean. And I have to say, knowing that I'm at the mercy of a drug is unsettling. As if to continue living, I need this coursing through my veins. I set the pills on the nightstand, and continue looking through my suitcase for some comfier clothes. I have no plans to leave this place for awhile now, so I might as well make myself comfortable.   
"Uh, Pat?" Pete calls from downstairs as I tug my sweatpants out.   
"Yeah?" I call back.   
"We've got a visitor."  
A visitor? We've been here for like, ten minutes. I roll my eyes and leave my sweats on the bed, and I start down the steps, looking up as I descend, my eyes locking on none other than Ryan Ross.   
I'm surprised to say the least. I haven't seen or heard from Ryan in forever.   
"Ryan? Wow, I...How have you been?" I ask as I walk out to see him, a very surprised Pete standing there beside him.   
"Good, man. I'm sorry for dropping in like this...Uh, Spencer told me about what happened and I really just wanted to drop by and see you. Both of you." he explains quietly, his hands half in his pockets, half hanging out. He looks...Different. Different in the distraught, hasn't slept a wink in days kind of different. I watch him as he exchanges a few words of apology to Pete for dropping in like this, my eyes scanning over his already moderately frail body. His hands are inadvertently trembling, and I cant say I know why, but I can say I have a hunch. I smile at him once he looks back at me, and I gesture towards the living room for us all to have a seat.   
"So, how are you?" Ryan asks, sitting on the empty couch cushion beside me. He rubs his palms on his jeans out of what I can only determine to be nervousness, but I don't know why. We've known each other for years, there is no reason for him to be afraid.   
"I've been alive." I answer truthfully. Well, as alive as a person can be after that god-awful hospital experience. Honestly, the only thing that's reminding me that I'm alive after all this is the fact that I still have a beating heart.   
"That's good, man. What about you, Pete? How's Megan? And Bronx?"  
Pete bites his lip before a smile blooms there. "Megan's alright. She's in Europe right now, doing a couple of shoots in Spain. And Bronx is as good as ever. Still a brat." he adds with a laugh. Of course it's a joke, Bronx is the center of Pete's world.   
"What about you?" I ask silently. Suddenly the color from Ryan's face drains, and he forces a shy smile. His eyes drift down from mine and find the hands in his lap, twisting with a string on the hem of his jeans, tightening it around his finger and then releasing the pressure just before his finger has the chance to turn blue.   
"Uh, I've been good. Working on some new music, I guess..." He says, his voice wavering.   
"Aren't you living in Nevada or something?" Pete asks suddenly, his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern. "Why did you come all the way out here? I mean, we were just a Skype call away."  
Again, Ryan becomes silent. I've learned that Ryan is like me in the sense that he needs time to process. If he wants to say something, he'll say it, but you gotta give him time to work out the kinks in his speech. In the meantime, my eyes wander up the walls, over the photographs on the table of Pete and Bronx, mom and dad. Eventually my eyes find the window, and I look out at the sky. Grey, but not dismally so, and it looks breezy. Light and airy.   
"Pete, we should go for a walk-"  
"I came out here to see Brendon."  
Silence.   
Both Pete and I snap our eyes down to Ryan, sitting there with his eyes in his lap, his hands still trembling.   
"Didn't you guys-"  
"Yeah."  
Silence.   
It's apparent that neither of us know what to say. A quick glance at him and we can both see he's on the verge of tears, just mentioning Brendon's name, and it hurts, honestly. Personally, I don't know what happened between those two. And I can't say that I want to, but all I know was it rocked them both to their core, and left them hurting. As far as I knew...They hadn't spoken in years.   
"Why?" I finally ask, shattering the icy silence that was beginning to close in on the three of us.   
"Because...Fuck...Well, I dunno. I guess I miss the guy. It's been like six years now...I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him." He confesses.   
"Does he know you're in town?"   
"No-"  
The sound of Pete's doorbell cuts Ryan off mid breath. Pete jumps up to grab the door, which I'm assuming is his way of saying he doesn't want to be part of the conversation. Which I understand, I mean, Pete doesn't do super emotional things as well as I do. Cautiously, I reach out and lay a hand on Ryan's knee. The tears start then, large and wet, falling down onto his faded jeans. I've never seen someone cry quite like Ryan before. Quiet yet so profuse.   
"It's okay, Ryan. We'll figure this all out."  
"I feel like an idiot for wanting to rebuild something with him."   
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea-" Pete's voice carries through the other and into the room.   
"Aw come on, man. I just wanted to say hi, maybe suggest a guys night." Comes a voice all too familiar. I look up at Ryan, who apparently hasn't picked up on it yet.   
"Maybe some other night? Patrick is kind of tired right now."  
Some scuffling is heard before Ryan finally looks up.  
"Ryan?!"


	5. The Agonizing Truth About Falling In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. So this chapter focuses solely on the relationship between Ryan Ross and Brendon Urie. Next chapter will be mostly Pete/Patrick, and so on. Enjoy!  
> P.S. I know that I kinda fucked up and put it that they all live in Chicago when Pete and Brendon for sure live in LA, so we're just gonna play pretend.

Ryan  
______

I can't say that I remember specific details about 'the incident'. I will make a point to keep what happened as vague as possible, because I can't fathom feeling his name on my lips without feeling that sharp, blinding pain rip through my entire body like a hurricane.  
The majority of the night has been rendered blurred to my mind. However what is vividly playing at the front of my mind is the words. Words flying to and fro, like a gong, blasting my ears and vibrating my skull, tearing into me like knives.   
 _We weren't even a real thing, Ryan. Forget it already._    
He stood before me, as great as I had ever seen him. In proper shape, taller even. A brand new haircut on his head...But the one thing that I notice is those eyes that are unwavering and as dark as ever. Those same eyes that I would look into and see the future and all it's secrets. The man before me used to be my light in a sea of darkness, and now? I think I'd be lucky if he remembered my name.   
Now? I can't say that I know where I am. I know I'm still in Chicago, but where I am is a question. There's rain falling down on me, the drops fat and icy as the splash my face, seep into my hair and cascade down the back of my neck, sending violent shivers up my spine. A faint steam rises off of the still-warm blacktop, and I watch it rise into the air, disappearing around the knees of the people passing me on the street. A few of them dig into their pockets and feel around for a handful of nickels and quarters to toss at me, as if I'm a bum with not a dime to my name. I can't look that bad, can I? I sigh heavily, turning my eyes towards the sky, squinting them some to avoid a raindrop to the eye. The stars are heavenly tonight. 

_Spring air has a tendency to hold a slight nip within it, but there is a bubble of warmth enveloping us, it seems. It must be 2 in the morning at the earliest, but he has this draw. This big, bright, exuberant draw that can't keep me away even at two in the morning. He showed up at my apartment with optimism layered over his eyes, his hand coiling around mine and pulling me from my slumber. "Come on, Ry...Let's go watch the stars."_  
 _Against everything that I know is right, I followed him. But that's how it's always been, hasn't it? He asks and I comply. I would have followed him into an open flame if he desired it._  
 _So here we are, standing in the middle of the soccer field, no lights around anywhere, no buildings, just the two of us, staring up at the vast expanse of sky above us. I feel the warmth of his fingers slipping between mine, clasping my hand tightly, but not frighteningly tight. A gust of chilled wind rips through the clearing and strikes us head on, carding through my hair, licking at my neck, worming it's way into my jacket. Out of human instinct, I shuffle my feet a little closer to him, huddling closer into the warmth of his chest. Then is when I feel his eyes on me, watching, yet not judging. The wind finally ceases, and I turn my eyes upward, catching his. It's a strange thing, love. Suddenly, even the most insignificant things are beautiful in unimaginable ways. The pale moonlight strikes his face, his skin appearing like porcelain to me. I smile._  
 _"The stars are gorgeous tonight." he says softly, his hand moving to curl around my shivering body._  
 _"Shame it's so cold." I mutter, my own arms hugging his waist._  
 _"I told you to bring a warmer jacket." He laughs. I shake my head. I look up yet again, my eyes dancing over the millions of twinkling lights suspended above me, wondering what it would be like to one day be amongst them. I've never believed in hell or heaven. Instead, I have always believed that for every soul released once a body dies, a star is born. And I'm confident that the man beside me will one day be the brightest star in the night sky._  
 _"Look!" he says, thrusting his free arm out, his index finger following the bright star that's moving across the sky. "Make a wish." he tells me, squeezing my body tighter against him._  
 _And I do._  
 _And I wish for us._

 

I look back down at the ground and I kick a small pebble, sending it flying down the alleyway, and I listen for it hitting the ground, but I cannot hear it touch down over the sounds of shuffling feet behind me. I look up at the building I've found myself leaning against, and see a bright neon sign, _Doherty's Bar_. I feel around for my wallet in the pockets of my jeans, but I can't feel the distinct lump of leather hidden in any one of my pockets. Sighing, I almost resign myself to retreating back to the hotel for the night, when my eyes catch a handful of silver, glinting off the dim streetlight. Looking down, I see the handfuls of change people have tossed toward me, quarters, nickels, mostly dimes and pennies, though. I kneel down and gather it all up into the palm of my hand, pebbles and all. There has to be enough here to buy me one drink. Just one.   
I dust my jeans off, though there's nothing there, and I close my fist around the change, pushing the glass door to the pub open, my muscles completely relaxing at the warm air that encompasses me as I set foot inside. I look to the long marble topped bar, a few people walking around behind it, pouring drinks and chatting up wayward men and women who never look up, but instead keep their eyes fixed on their drinks, as if they'll find the answers to their problems inside their drinks.   
If only it were that easy.   
Cautiously, I approach the bar, and a petite blonde is in front of me before I can slide onto the stool. At first glance, she looks like she doesn't belong in a place like this. In a dirty, grimy, out of the way bar in the nasty part of Chicago, assuming that's where I've ended up. She gives off an educated vibe. Her hair is tied into a tight ponytail, not  down and framing her face, falling over her shoulders and falling into her cleavage-- like her associate, serving a handful of men at the opposite end of the bar.   
"Rough night?" She asks me, resting her hand on her hip as she relaxes into her position. I slide onto the stool comfortably, folding my hands in front of me on the countertop. My eyes flicker over her face, and the glasses that are pushed high up her nose. They look like the same damned glasses that He used to wear. Fuck.   
"You could say that I've seen better," I reply, looking down at myself. I'm soaked to the bone. Both my jeans and my shirt cling to my body, exposing my every curve and bump. She releases a chuckle.   
"I could get you a drink if you're desperate for one. Or I could get you a hot chocolate. You look like you need both."  
I give her a halfhearted smile and dump the handful of change on the counter, listening to the dinging as some of it hits the floor at her feet. She shoots me a questioning glance.   
"What's this for?"  
"Whiskey. Neat. And your tip, if I have enough."   
She smiles again.   
"It's on the house, buddy." she says before wandering away to grab a bottle of whiskey off of the wall behind her, where they showcase their most expensive alcohols.   
While she brews my drink, I look over my shoulder and catch a couple playing pool at the table in the corner of the room. He's behind her, showing her how to shoot properly, though I can almost guarantee she already knows.   
My eyes snap back to the bartender when she sets the drink down before me. Her eyes flicker from the change, back to me, and the change again.   
"Keep it." I say softly.   
"I couldn't."  
"I'm not homeless."  
"Could have fooled me."  
"Thanks."  
I take the drink and she takes the change, a small trade off, and for a moment, I think she'll leave me be to tend I other customers. But she seems intrigued my me, because she's back in front of me again in no time. "I don't do this well, but, what's gotcha troubled, son?" she asks me, taking the towel off of her shoulder and wiping the place on the counter where the wet change had been sitting. For the first time all day, I manage a laugh.   
"Never fall in love, miss," I say, turning my eyes up to hers, inspecting them for any hint of attraction. Not that I'd be interested, but because the last thing I need in this moment is for someone to be lusting after me. But what I see isn't attraction, it's compassion. "you'll only break your own heart."  
She nods, taking my statement in and toying with it, likely deciding whether I toss it out in the trash, or to store it away for safekeeping. I personally hope she remembers.   
"Who's the lady that did this to you?"   
I laugh. " _He's_ a musician. Haven't seen him in six years. I came out here from southern California to try to resolve our friendship at least. But he didn't want any of it."   
She nods, sympathetic. "Maybe he was just scared."  
"Of what?"  
"That one of you would get hurt again."

 _Love is a paralytic. I should have told myself this years ago. I shouldn't have fallen in love with the lead singer of my band, for one. What was I thinking? That this rock and roll fantasy would continue with the two of us free falling into deeper waters together? Oh, how I wish it would be that easy._  
 _It's funny, how the heart can shift and change once it's been shattered. Just this morning I had been saying how much I really thought that I loved him. Of course, I had never told any of this to him yet, but he woke me up with a kiss and a cup of coffee and for a moment, I thought about actually doing it._  
 _But I didn't. And I'm glad I didn't._    
 _I needed a friend. I don't know why, but I just needed to feel him telling me that everything was okay. That I was okay. My feet carried me to his place without my even thinking about it. What a goddamned mistake._    
 _I opened the door, slipping inside with the thought that I would find him on the couch, working on something, maybe watching television. But I don't. What I find almost shocks me. He is on the couch, yes. But it's who is beneath him that catches my eye. A woman, whom I do not know. Dark hair, petite, her tight clothes riding up her body, exposing a soft tummy, His hand ravaging her already._  
 _My breath is caught in my throat, my heart stopping in my chest. It is as if everything I thought that the two of us shared crumbled beneath my feet, sending me free falling into a dark emptiness, alone and afraid. If it was one thing mama was always right about-- it was never fall in love with a damned musician._

_We weren't even a thing. Forget it already._

I knock back my whiskey in a few gulps, thanking the bartender for her hospitality, and I set out. I don't even know where I'm going, seeing as I don't know which section of the city I'm walking around in, but I know the address. I know it by heart.  
A cab pulls up beside the curb upon which I'm standing, and I slip into the backseat, barking directions at the driver, who is also looking at me like I'm a little worse for wear. I kind of am, if we're being honest. The cab begins to roll forward, and my eyes drift out the window, watching the neon lights and the people passing by, wondering if they've ever experienced pain like this-- and gone back for more again and again.   
I guess you could say that I miss the misery. I miss how we would scream for no reason, how we would throw shit at one another, screaming our points, screaming how much we hated each other. Except we didn't. Or at least I never did. I did what I had to do I keep my sanity, but he seemed to truly hate me. And that's what hurts the most after all these years.   
Before I know it, I'm in front of the house, the windows are dark, except one little dim light filling who seems to be the dining room.   
Shit. My wallet.   
"I, I forgot my wallet at the bar, sir," I lie, patting myself.   
"It's okay, kid." he explains, his bushy white brows pulling together as if he's regretting the words that are falling from his lips. "it's on the house."  
"Thank you. Thank you so much, sir--"  
"Get out of my cab before I change my mind, kid." he replies sternly. I nod, and step out, back into the rain. What am I doing? I shouldn't have come here. He'll have the cops on my ass-- _Just do it, Ryan_  
Starting with a single step, I begin the walk up the steps to the home. At first, I almost do not knock on the door, almost turning around to walk back to my hotel, even if it takes me all night to find it.   
But then I hear something. Something tinkling and heavy all at once, the unmistakable sound of piano music. It's muffled by the walls that separate us, but it stops me dead in my tracks. But it is not the music that has me captivated here. It is the sound of his voice, clear and loud throughout his home as I listen with my ear pressed against the door.   
"Whether near or far, I am always yours. Any change in time, we are young again. Lay us down...We're in love." he sings, his voice tightening like he's saddened by the words, like they have hooks into his heart, pulling and twisting until he's ripped in half. My palm is flat against the door while I listen to him, a tear coming to my eye. I don't even mean to, but my knees buckle beneath my weight, and knock on the door, and at once the music stops. _Fuck._  
Do I run? Or do I stay here, wait for him and explain that I was stupid, that I was cruel? Or do I tell the truth and tell him he was a fuckhead? I'm terrified, but I have no time to think, because before I can bolt, the door opens cautiously, Brendon's face appearing within the crack, his eyes puffy and red, his cheeks shiny with dried tears.   
"Listen--" I begin softly, but I'm cut off by Brendon opening the door wider, his voice confessing to me.  
"I am a huge fuck up. You are everything I have ever wanted and needed, and I let you slip through my fingers again."   
I'm shocked. And angry. Pissed, even. But I do not show it because at the same time, I am touched, and my heart is swelling with the same love and adoration that I originally traveled out here with. How could he be so nice in his words and his demeanor now, but just hours ago, he was ready to kill me? He's always been confusing, hard to handle.   
"I can't forgive you right now. But we can work on it." I tell him, shaking my head swiftly, freeing the loose droplets of water from the tips of my hair. If even possible, I'm more wet than I was when I was at Doherty's.   
Brendon nods. "Can we start by getting you some dry clothes?" he asks, with a shy smile, opening the door all the way, inviting me into his home.   
"We could start there, yes." I answer, stepping inside, again, shuddering at the warmth that enveloped me. In an instant, Brendon has bolted off to find what I assume is a towel, and leaves me standing on the doormat. I look around, and in the dark, I can tell that the home is beautiful. Dark and neutral colors on the wall, a few photographs hanging on the walls near the staircase and the door, and just beyond me, I can see the room that Brendon was in, a large white grand piano sitting in the middle of an empty space, a small glass of some questionable dark liquor inside it sitting atop the piano. My eyes drift upwards and I see a small circular clock hanging right above the piano. 2 AM. Of course.   
Brendon returns a moment later with a towel in his hands, and he extends it towards me. I nod in thanks, wishing the tension that was hanging between us would just melt away. I wrap my head in the towel and dry my hair as best as I can, digging my fingertips into my scalp, to hopefully attain some feeling there again.   
"Come on upstairs. I have some clothes you could borrow."  
How fucked up is this situation? Too fucked up for two in the morning.   
I follow him, trying to step as lightly as I can, knowing that I'm still dripping wet. He leads me up the steps and to the third door down on the right, his own bedroom. The bed is a king size, obviously. The sheets on top are red, a matching comforter flattened neatly over the whole mattress. It's dark until he flips the light on, revealing himself looking through his closet for a few items for me to wear to at least sleep in. After a moment of waiting, he comes out with a pair of long pajama pants and a t-shirt that'll be extremely baggy on me. Beggars cannot be choosers, however. I nod, and look up at him, my eyes shifting from his to his chest and then back again. "Bathroom's just over there," Brendon says, gesturing towards his personal bathroom attached to his bedroom. I nod, and again tread lightly so as not to completely soak the floor. Once inside, I lock the door and release the heavy breath that I'd been holding in since I started up the stairs. My back against the door, I slide to the floor, slipping a little faster than usual, now that I'm soaked. When I hit the floor, my neck bows forward and my face lands in my cupped hands, while my chest tightens around a fat sob. _This can't be real...No, it can't be. How can he be forgiving me? I screwed us over so hard..._  
"Ryan? You okay?"  
"Y-Yeah, I'm fine. Just gimme a sec." I reply, sitting up and wiping my eyes with the towel. He has this draw I can't ignore. God bless anyone who falls in love with Brendon Urie. Or myself for that matter...Because if it weren't for me, this mess would have been nonexistent. If I had kept my mouth shut, if I had never been afraid.  
I finish dressing myself, leaving my wet clothes in the bathtub. Of course there's something strange about wearing your _insert relationship title here_ 's underwear, but when your soaked to the nine and near freezing you learn to live a little. I turn the knob and head out into the bedroom, where Brendon is sitting with his face in his hands as well, perched upon the end of the bed.   
"Is there a guest room?" I ask. Brendon is silent a few moments before he nods.   
"But I want to know...Could you ever just...Lay down your guard for tonight? And lay down with me?"   
At first, the first feeling I feel is shock. He wants me to lay down with him? Maybe it's just for him to validate that this isn't a dream, that I'm real and standing before him, agreeing to mend everything. Of course, I could use that reassurance too.   
"Sure...Sure, Brendon." I reply. He jumps a little, like he was expecting me to shout at him, but he quickly replaces the shock with a smile. He stands up and moves to the closet, stripping his shirt off and replacing it with a new one, one with Wolverine on the front, and a pair of pajama pants that match mine. Admittedly, I wouldn't have watched him while he changed into his pajamas, but who could help me? That's a body that I haven't seen in six years. A body I used to worship at every chance I got. And I see that it hasn't changed much. Gained a little muscle definition, but it's the same Brendon. My Bren.   
He walks towards the bed, and pulls back the covers, gesturing for me to slip in. I do, and lord almighty is this bed cushy. I could sleep here for years on end of I had the mind to.   
I wriggle in tight and lay flat on my back, my hands folded on my tummy, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. I can feel Brendon's eyes on me, but I dare not look. If I do, I might get myself into a situation that neither of us will be proud of.   
There is silence surrounding us for a long time, until Brendon finally speaks, slow and quiet.   
"I'm sorry for what happened today."  
"I know. I am too,"  
Silence again. There's been so much left unsaid that we should be pouring our hearts out like a couple of girls at a slumber party, but of couture we are not. We wait in the silence until its too much to bear, or until one of us feels like we're rotting out.  
"Do you...Think we could fix us?" Brendon asks me, reaching forward and grabbing a strand of my hair, twisting it around his finger and smoothing it down, and repeating the process again. My heart leaps.   
"I want to fix us, Brendon. I really do." I reply, my voice timid and quiet. Earlier in the day when I approached him, calling him by his old nickname, Bren, he shut me down, screaming at me in harsh tones, telling me that I had shattered that privilege years ago. It stung, inevitably. That's what I knew him as for years. My sweetheart, my Bren.   
"...Call me Bren." He says, ripping me from my harsh thoughts. I turn my head and I look into his eyes, those damn eyes that say so much without even trying.   
"I missed you so much, Ryan." he confesses.   
"I know, I missed you too."   
And his eyes show a small glitter in them that shows excitement to me. Like he hadn't expected me to miss him. Truth is, when I walked out the door all those years ago, I missed him. I saw him in everything I did. I saw him in birds, I saw him in the wind, and when it became to agonizing, I moved on, and I purposefully fucked it up in some strange attempt to make her feel like I had for the past years, even though she was not involved with it at all.   
"We're going to get better, right?" Brendon asks.   
"Yeah, Bren...I promise." 


	6. Hold Me Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Thanks for sticking it out with me, and putting up with how long it takes to update. I'm sorry, but I appreciate your support! Thank you so much!

**Patrick**  
______

I had been completely fine, right up until then. Speaking with Ryan, Pete across from me...It felt _comfortable_ of all things. A feeling that up until then had been extremely foreign to me. It was amicable, to say the least. Being able to experience comfort like that deep inside myself...Nice.   
That was, until Brendon showed up. Not one of us in that room expectd the little reunion to go well, and well, we weren't wrong. I felt the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as Brendon laid eyes on Ryan, sitting right beside me, his face full of tears. Once recognition set in, icy silence hung in the air between everyone like a dead body. Then, piercing everyone's ears, Brendon roared out a simple;  "What the _fuck_ are you doing here?"   
It would have made sense to someone on the outside looking in, without the knowledge that Brendon and Ryan have deep emotional ties that even God himself couldn't break.   
Of course, when the hostility was thick and very apparent, Ryan then cut in with the painfully shrill; "What are you talking about? These are my friends just as much as they are yours." which is a valid point.   
Then came; "What gave you the right to just show up?!" from Brendon. Loud and booming in the echo of the home. It was at that point that I suspect Pete was beginning to have enough. I didn't need this, Ryan certainly didn't.   
Then, of course, came the little begging voice of Ryan Ross. The little voice of the kid who had his heart ripped in two, the kid who was screwed by the person he put everything into. "Bren, calm down--"  
"Do _not_ call me that. You lost that privilege years ago."  
I assume that this hurt Ryan very, very deeply. That's all that Brendon was called by by Ryan. The whole fight was a huge back and forth arguing, trying to destroy the other one emotionally, but it seemed that that wasn't enough. Eventually, Ryan had lashed out, he'd opened his hand and slapped Brendon straight across the face. Nice one, Ryan. As if things aren't already almost out of control. The rest of the fight went a little something like this:   
 _"Touch me again and I'll break your fucking wrist."_  
 _"I fucking dare you, you punk. You weren't even there."_  
"I'm _the punk? I didn't sleep around on my girlfriend in her birthday."_  
 _"You must have that goddamn selective memory because I clearly remember you sleeping around on me, you sick fuck."_  
 _"We weren't even an official thing, Ryan. Fucking let it go."_  
Step back from all the drama, and what do we have? We have a very skittish and frightened Patrick sitting on the couch, watching all of this go down with wide eyes. I remember having fire lick up my arms, my lungs contracting, feeling like there was a huge weight there. I knew I had to get out of there, but I could barely move a muscle. The familiarity of the situation was all too real. This wasn't my first rodeo, I had been around all out brawls and fistfights before. And they all led to anxiety attacks.   
I was extremely thankful when Pete diffused the situation, all but shoving Brendon out the door, and telling Ryan to get a hold of himself. It was then that I took my cue to disappear. Discretely, I stood from the couch and crept around towards the staircase, my eyes hooking over my shoulders briefly as I start up the steps onward my designated bedroom.   
Once inside the silence of the room, I shut the door, and release a heavy breath that I estimate I've been holding inside my lungs for far too long. I try to ease myself and silence the screaming inside my skull by taking repeated deep breaths, focusing on anything that wasn't the animosity going on below my feet. And then, I see it. Sitting in a small orange bottle on my nightstand.   
Hastily, I walk over to the nightstand and grasp the bottle firmly in my palm, fumbling with the lid, trying to pop it off. It takes me a few seconds to realize its one of those lids which you have to push down and turn to open. Rolling my eyes at my own stupidity, I finally get the bottle open, and shake two pills onto my palm. I study them for a moment, they're smooth, and small, green and white. The words "Prozac" and "20 mg" appear on their sheen surface. Suddenly, a slamming door rattles the floor beneath me, and I all but shove the pills down my throat. Like the sound was a hasty trigger for me to get the show on the road, my wrist flicked upwards when my feet rattled, the pills flying into my mouth with ease. I swallow hard, feeling the little caplets slither down my throat, through my chest and finally the tight feeling disappears into my stomach. They have to work, I think. They _have_. I pace around my room a little, my hairs still standing on end, my mind still alight with the fire that was in the words of some of my closest friends. I had never seen two people fight quite like that before, such intensity behind each word, each eyebrow twitch, each breath. I have no idea of the events that went on between the two those years ago, nor do I care to find out. But I do care that they're far away from one another. God knows what would have happened if Pete or I hadn't been there.   
An immeasurable amount of time passes, and I finally feel peaceful. Like the tense feelings, the buzzing mind...It all just melted away, leaving me feeling a little more blissful than I had been. A smile twitches up on my lips when I realize this, and I take my seat on the edge of the bed. My bed.   
The mattress sinks down beneath my weight, and I immediately notice this, my palms spreading out and feeling over the bumps and wrinkles in the duvet and I slowly ease myself onto my back.   
All at once, my head begins to tighten, and to swirl with a thousand different thoughts, all of them eventually leading back to the bandage on my wrist. What had ultimately driven me to lay in that bathtub that night with a razor blade between my fingers?   
The obvious answer is my volatile thoughts towards myself, how I see myself as this obese, depressive, enigmatic loser rather than the sweet teddy bear that I am believed to be. I don't see this 'cute' and 'sweet' man in the mirror. Instead, I see this horrid mass of person with more flaws than one can shake a stick at. I see pudgy cheeks that should be thinner, should show off my cheekbones, not what I ate for dinner last week. I see arms and a stomach that is far thicker than needed. They jiggle with the slightest movement. Teeth that aren't straight, skin that isn't clear, hair that needs a touch up...Everything is just so...Wrong.   
What I find almost miraculous is that even with all these self deprecating thoughts buzzing about my brain, seemingly without end, I'm still at ease. My mind is still flowing and turning with incredible fluidity, never faltering at all. For someone so plagued by nervousness and the sort, this is like an eye opener. Something completely wild and crazy that I can't quite grasp entirely. I just know with absolute certainty that Prozac is the miracle I've been waiting for my whole life.   
"Patrick?" Comes the concerned sound of Pete's voice. For a moment I wonder how long I've been laying here, how long it's been since the activity died downstairs.   
The sound of a firm knock on the door rattles the window on the opposite side of the room.   
"Yeah," I answer, though I don't make an effort to sit up straight. No, this bed is far too comfortable. The door opens wide and Pete steps in, Hemingway trotting in happily beside him.   
"You okay, buddy?" Pete asks quietly. I turn my head towards the sound of his voice, and the corner of my mouth twitches up into a lopsided grin. "Been awhile since you disappeared."  
"Yeah, I'm fine...Just got a little freaked out I guess," I respond, my voice soft and calm. Pete smiles.   
"Well they're gone now, if you wanna come back downstairs. I'm gonna make some stuff for dinner. You're probably wanting to eat a little something more than a soggy sandwich and a bowl of cold carrots." Pete offers, tailing off his statement with a small laugh. He's right, I would want to eat something other than shitty hospital food...If I wanted to eat.  
 I can't tell him I'm not hungry, I don't want to be rude. Not to mention the fact that I don't want him to catch any big red flags right off the bat.   
"Sure," I groan, pulling myself off the mattress and to my feet.   
"Great. Come on downstairs and pick out a few movies for us to watch or something." 

Following Pete's instruction, I find my way down the steps and into the larger part of the home, waddling into the living room. I hear the clanging of pots and pans, the soft scuffle of Pete's feet on the floor, Hemingway's claws rattling on the floor as they rush to the sound of the noise. The corner of my mouth tips up into a small, barely-there grin. This domesticity...I missed it. I know that it could have been longer, it could have been far worse than it truly was, but being locked up in that hospital...It was as if time was simply nonexistent. It could have been twenty minutes, twenty hours, twenty seconds and I would not have known the difference. It feels as though I was gone for years, though that is obviously not the case. Who knew that the simple sound of kitchen activity could make everything even that much brighter in my mind. Then again, maybe it's the pills.   
Instead of selecting a movie to watch, I follow the sounds myself, and make my way into the kitchen. Pete turns to look at me for a moment before turning back to his work. "I never pictured you as the cooking type," I tease, slipping up onto the tall chair at the edge of the island in the center of the kitchen.   
"Neither did I," he replies with a laugh. He reaches up to the cabinet above his head and pulls out a small glass jar of spices and sets it down on the counter before him. "I had to learn to make something other than Kraft Dinner and frozen pizza for Bronx by the time he was finished with baby food." he explains, opening the fridge and pulling out a package of bright red steaks.   
"You don't make T-Bones for Bronx."  
"No, but I make them for my best friends." he says, craning his neck around to wink at me. Something stirs in my stomach that I don't really recognize as he does this. A little fluttering feeling that makes my chest warm, my cheeks following suit.   
"Please," I shoot back, waving my hand dismissively. "I would have been perfectly fine with frozen pizza." I tell him truthfully. There's no need for him to treat me to a full blown steak dinner. I'm not worth the trouble, anyways.   
"Shut up," he retorts, pulling a pan out of the drawer beneath the stove. I wince at the shrill metal against metal squeal that rips through the room. "You need to eat something of sustenance dude."   
I roll my eyes. "Says the guy who can live off of Taco Bell and mountain dew."   
Pete looks up and knits his eyebrows together. "Not true."  
"The piss speaks for itself, dude."  
A rosy hue blooms up on his cheeks as he remembers that damn night. No one knew why he challenged himself to drink his own urine, but none of us stopped him. In hindsight, maybe I should have, but hell, I got a good laugh out of it.   
"How do you know what my piss looks like?" he asks curiously, the right side of his mouth tipped up in a kind of smirk.   
"Don't tell me you don't remember that."  
"What?"  
"The night you decided to play piss roulette with yourself?"  
His eyes widen some, and I can only imagine what's coming back to his mind.   
"Man that was awful."  
"You have the most toxic piss known to man, I swear. They should weaponize it."   
Pete laughs at this, a cordial sound that in the strangest way, makes me feel safe. Then again, Pete Wentz has always been more or less a safety blanket for me. I still remember the first show we had together as Fall Out Boy. 

_The floor vibrated with the sound of the kick drum, rattling my feet and sending little shocks of a twisted concoction of nervousness and excitement into my chest. My heart is hammering away, beating on my ribs and my head is throbbing. I am so fa out of my element that I may as well be tap dancing in the goddamned Himalayas. I feel naked. Exposed entirely for everyone to tear apart and critique. They're going o rip me limb from limb out there. Chew me up and spit me out like a piece of bubble gum.  I can't do this, I tell myself harshly. I can't do this._  
 _I see Pete a few feet away, chatting with Joe, smiling and laughing, as if they aren't experiencing what I am in any regard whatsoever. Then again, Pete's been in bands before this. I run my hands through my hair, taking deep breaths, but to no avail. My fingers tremble uncontrollably and my knees become weak. I can't do this._  
"Something up, buddy?" Pete asks. Christ, I hadn't even noticed him walk up.  
 _"I can't do this, Pete. I can't."_  
 _His expression shifts to confusion. "What are you talking about, Patrick? You sounded incredible in rehearsals."_  
 _My throat constricts around a thick whine, and I struggle to keep it bottled up, knowing I can't waste time on tears. Not now._  
 _Nevertheless, my eyes start to water without my consent, despite my swallowing the lump in my throat._  
 _"Woah, hey, hey, hey..." Pete says softly, taking my hand in his and leading me away from the busy crowd of people, and toward a darkened corner of the backstage area. "You got this, Pat."_  
 _"But I don't, Pete. Performing in your basement is a whole different ball park. This is...This is like the big leagues."_  
 _His eyes say that I'm making this a big deal when it's just a dingy basement club with strung out punks listening to us, and maybe I am. But his mannerisms are calm, soothing even. And what's more is I'm noticing something changing in me that I had never experienced before. Slowly, my anxiety is melting away, and it started the moment that Pete touched my hand. I don't know, maybe I'm just searching for excuses here, but it seems that the skin to skin contact is helping to take the edge off._  
 _"Here," he says softly, taking his dumb baseball cap off of his own head and plopping it on top of mine. "It helps, trust me. You feel kinda...Hidden. Oh, and lemme take those." he adds, reaching up and taking my glasses off of my face. He folds the arms and slips them into his pocket. "Now you won't be able to see past the first row."  
I nod slowly and even manage to crack the tiniest of smiles. "There's my boy. Now let's go show 'em what we're made of, hm?"_

"Hey! Astro Boy!" Pete calls, bringing me back to the present moment. I feel a bright heat color my cheeks as I blink confusedly at him.   
"Sorry...Just thinkin'."   
"Get outta your head, kid." he laughs, shaking his head, amused at me. "I asked if you were okay with cayenne pepper."   
"Yeah, that'll be fine." I say, offering a smile, despite my uneasiness at the very topic of food. Consciously, I am fully aware that eating is natural. It is not something foreign, nor should it be frowned upon. And yet, I am plagued by the virulent thoughts of my own body, feeling out of place where comfort should be apparent.   
Suddenly, the air in the kitchen feels thick and heavy. It feels like I have to gasp to get a hold of any semblance of oxygen.   
"I'm gonna..." I mumble, hooking my thumb over my shoulder and hastily stumble out. It's like my whole head is liquid, this dizzying feeling washing over me.   
I amble awkwardly into the living room, somehow managing to find my way onto the cushy white couch, flopping on my back. The red blanket that was draped over the back of it slips down and over my lap. For the life of me, I can't pinpoint why I am so edgy, what'd got me so upset over something as simple as a warm home cooked meal. And then I remember-- The center of the critiquing around me has never been my voice, or my abilities as a musician. It has always been my weight. And I know that li fein the spotlight comes with that kind of backlash, but I was always the type to hope and pray that my talent would precede something as trivial as that. But lord was I wrong.   
Once the dizziness subsides some, I reach over to the coffee table just inches away from my reach, and grab my phone that sits on top of a small circular coaster made from cork. God knows I shouldn't be doing this, but I have to. Like something's telling me that I have to torture myself and get it over with earlier on, rather than after I've let myself heal some.   
I open the applications, watching wiping my thumb over the small and square icons until I find myself tapping the little blue one with the white bird on it. I hardly ever go on Twitter anymore. The reason why I stopped was ironically the very reason I was now venturing forth to do once again. The names of people I follow come up on the screen, some with witty tweets, some with promotions or endorsements. I smile at Gerard's tweet about his daughter, Bandit. Brendon's tweet about his hairspray. But as I scroll, flicking my thumb upwards and watching the text fly down the screen, I see my name appear under the heading; 'Trending'. It's at the top.   
Curiously, I knit my brows together, and tap the little blue hashtag. A little white snake turns in a continuous circle at the top of my screen, loading the data I have requested, and then a whole mess of tweets flood the screen, all of them pertaining to me...And my condition.   
For a split second, I'm confused. How did anyone get wind of what happened to me? My mind rolls over countless possibilities. One of my siblings said the wrong thing to the wrong person, Elisa walked into the house and saw the blood stained on the ceramic tub, and maybe she freaked out and told somebody. But no, I trust these people. They wouldn't do that to me. Who would do that is the snakes who hover over people like me like hungry falcons. Paparazzi.   
They typically leave me alone, seeing as how I'm nothing but a strange little man who lives a strange little life. I don't party, I don't do anything out of the ordinary. Everyone is always hovering over Pete, taking pictures of him at the park with Bronx, shopping for goddamned groceries.   
Apparently word got out via one of the bloody vultures and now I'm top news in the Twitterverse. Against my better judgement, my eyes scan over the words, not paying much attention to the names they came from. 

@PatrickStump Get better!   
@PatrickStump We miss you and we hope for a speedy recovery

These are the nicer ones that I see. And you know, these are supposed to outweigh everything else, make everything seem a little happier than it really is. Supposed to give me hope, and outweigh the bad things. But they scream at me. They're louder, more violent and harsh, ringing in my ears, rattling my skull. 

Anyone heard about @PatrickStump? What a fucking joke!  
I'm willing to get that this is nothing but a publicity stunt from @patrickstump  
@PatrickStump Suicide attempt? All you're doing is copying Pete.  
Maybe @patrickstump finally realized that you can't front a band when you look like a whale. Sayonara, fuckwad.

Maybe it isn't that I wanted to get this over with before I had to do it when I got myself better. Maybe It's that I'm addicted to the pain that this provides. Maybe whenever I see a mean tweet about me, and I feel the sting of the knives it threw, perhaps I'm just addicted to the crippling way that pain tortures me and rips me apart.   
Trying to explain why you're drawn to things that hurt you is like trying to explain to your mother why you took the cookie from the cookie jar, though she is well aware that you did take the cookie. It doesn't work. It's not fundamentally possible. I could give half assed excuses each day and no one would buy any of them, if they had an ounce of intelligence.   
"Whatcha lookin' at, Short Stack?" Comes the sound of Pete's voice as he leans over the couch and peers down at me.   
"N-Nothing." I reply, trying to shield my phone from his view. He apparently sees this gesture, and immediately, he thrusts his arm out and clamps his hand around my phone.   
"Come on, 'Tricky, it's not like you're watching porn." Pete says in an attempt to justify his invasive manners. After a short struggle, he finally worms the phone out of my grasp, looking down at the screen with eyebrows knit together. His eyes slowly roll back up to meet mine, clearly unimpressed. An icy sliver of fear worms it's way into my chest and makes a home within my heart. If its one thing that makes me worry more than anything else, it's the knowledge that Pete is disappointed in me. I can handle anyone else being disappointed in me. But Pete? It makes me feel like I've let him down in monumental ways. Shamefully, I look down at my hands, and listen intently. I hear him shuffle around to the from of the couch, and the cushion sinks down beneath his weight.   
"Pete, it's nothing...I'm fine." I say abruptly in hopes that it'll diffuse the imminent conversation. But it never does.   
"No, you're not, Patrick..." Pete says, his voice cool and comforting. That's a complete difference from what I was expecting-- a verbal lashing. "Please stop lying to yourself. You are so much better than what everyone makes you out to be, but the worst part about this is you aren't getting angry. Please be angry at them or even at me, but please don't sit there emotionless about how the world treats you like absolute shit."   
I don't even know what to say. I feel ashamed, and disgusted with myself. But yet, I still feel like I can't just give it up. Wherever I go, there'll always be this backlash, and it's unavoidable. No matter what I do I will see it, and I will still feel the same way-- Like I deserve every damned word.   
I nod, even though I don't agree. I'm not an angry person and I never have been. I wish Pete knew that it isn't that easy for me.   
"I mean it, Patrick. You're so much better than any of this, alright?" He says as if he's looking for some definitive sign that I comprehend what he's saying. I smile weakly, but that smile widens when I feel his hand coil around mine.   
"There's my boy. Come on, Dinner's ready."

Pete sort of outdid himself with this. He's made steaks, potatoes, corn and salad for just the two of us. My eyes widen as I look at the delicious looking plates in front of me. "Go on, sit down." Pete prompts. I take a few soft steps forward and place myself in the slim wooden chair pressed against the table, before the plate that has a significantly smaller portion size, in comparison to Pete's. I smile weakly down at the food, shifting my eyes up to look at Pete for a brief second before I look down at the food again. I take my fork between my fingers and first start by stabbing at a green pepper that had found its way into the salad and place it on my tongue. It feels like I haven't eaten a green pepper in years. I smile at the tangy, fresh taste.   
"You eat like a bird, dude." Pete laughs, sitting down and immediately grabbing his knife and tearing into the steak on his plate.   
"And you eat like a dog." I reply, winking my right eye at him as I munch on a piece of lettuce now.   
"At least dogs are cute," he retorts through a mouthful of gashed up meat.   
"And birds are beautiful," I reply. That little statement was enough to make me have to stop and wonder. Am I?  
Pete swallows his mouthful and smiles at me. He sets his fork down, and I listen to the clink against the plate, watching him grab his glass of water. "You're right. And some birds are more beautiful than they will ever know."  
Pete has this conniving way of being supremely poetic in the way he says things, not always even intending to. But this instance? I know what that man is up to, and I know that his full intent was to make me blush. Mission accomplished, Petey. My cheeks are on fire.   
He seems to notice this, and a smirk of unabashed satisfaction blooms across his lips, and he digs right back into his dinner without even saying a word.   
Pete's always been moderately flirtatious with me like that, thirteen years together and things tend to happen. I remember drunken nights after shows when he would hit on me and tell me I was 'the prettiest girl at the bar'. Or how he would touch me in the most intimate places, like the small of my back, for no reason and act so casual about it. I've always gone along with it, knowing it was nothing, really, and that it was just my best friend being, well, friendly. I've never acted on my feelings that I had for Pete. Even though every cheek kiss, every wink or snide comment filled my heart with butterflies, I stayed silent, watching him from afar, wondering just what it would be like to be one of those girls.   
To be clear, I am not gay. I did have a wife, whom I love deeply [note the /did/]. I just find this big red ball of God-Knows-What inside Pete, and it intrigued me. Allured me, even.   
Dinner continues without a hitch, thankfully. We talk music, women, and everything in between, really. Pete honestly has the gift of the gab, and he knows how to draw it out of me. As I cut the last piece of my steak into a handful of pieces, I feel this strange churning feeling in my stomach, and I instantly know what's impending. My eyes widen some, and I set my fork down, smiling at Pete, who has already finished his dinner and is now watching me poke at mine.   
"Excuse me," I say softly and begin walking towards the bathroom. My footsteps become quicker as I feel my tongue begin to throb, the acid sneaking its way up my throat. Without worrying about anything besides getting my face overtop of that toilet bowl, I hurriedly throw the door open and stumble inside, my hand clutching my stomach. 

 **Pete**  
____

Patrick Stump is adorable. Anyone would agree with me. He's got the baby face that makes you just want to curl up with him and never let anything make him sad again.   
Except that's hard to do when all he does is make himself sad.   
I'm fairly certain I know what's happened here, and even though I don't want to face it, I have to. My stomach twists in knots the moment I hear that horrible, lurid retching from down the hall. I shoot up and out of my seat, scrambling after the sound, finding my best friend hunched over the toilet bowl, his body shuddering violently with each and every thick heave. I wince at the acrid scent of sour vomit in the air, but instead of leaving, or even asking any questions, I simply kneel down and lay a hand on his back. I rotate it in slow circles over his shirt, watching as he empties his stomach, nothing but bright yellow bile dripping from his lips now.   
"It's okay," I murmur, his trembling sending shivers up my own spine. "I'm right here, Patrick. It's all okay."   
He breathes heavily for a few moments and then rocks back to sit on his knees, looking around dazedly. His eyes looked glazed over, his mind looks entirely blank. "Here," I offer, reaching forward and grabbing a small wad of toilet paper, dabbing his mouth with it. Then, as I'm cleaning him up, my eyes catch the unmistakable glisten of a tiny tear trickling down his porcelain cheek, and its like a lightbulb goes off. Instantly, I know what's been done.   
I just don't see it. Even with girl's I've dated before, I've never known why it was such a popular thing to shove one's fingers down their throats. It doesn't bring anything but heartache and pain, and I can confirm that it's not skin and bones that we, as men, are after. Patrick's different though, I think. I do not think he wants to be this way, but rather he chooses, and that's probably the hardest uphill battle, because everyone knows that old habits die hard.   
"Come here, baby." I whisper, pulling him into my body for a hug. His shaking arms cautiously move around my body, hugging me back tightly. "It's okay..."  
We sit there on the bathroom floor for an immeasurable amount of time, Patrick crying softly into my chest, my heart shattering with every little whimper. Eventually out of some weird instinct that I harbor, I slip my hand beneath his shirt and allow my cool fingertips to brush against his bare skin. Something about skin to skin contact always has calmed Patrick down, be it something as simple as hand holding or silly as touching his face, or something as intimate as this. I feel his body start to even out from the trembling immediately, his breathing following suit.  Neither of us say anything for awhile. Just sit in the silence with one another, until it becomes unbearable. Finally, I speak up; "Why, Pat? Why do you have to do that? You don't need to make yourself puke. I think you're perfect the way you are." I say softly against his hair. He pulls away from me, his face holding a quizzical expression on his face, his eyes still moderately puffy.   
"What are you talking about?" he asks hoarsely, bringing a hand up to wipe his cheeks.  
"You...Don't have to make yourself puke. You're not fat, Patrick."  
He looks at me and he smiles a little, which immediately warms my heart.   
"Pete, I didn't do that. I think my stomach just...you know, wasn't used to the food and I overdid it."   
I search his face for any trace of deception, looking at his eyes, inspecting them. Whenever Patrick lies, his right eye twitches just slightly, but it's always been something I could easily pick up. And I'm greatly pleased when I see that it's not twitching in the slightest.   
"Then why we're you crying?" I ask, reaching up to move a piece of stray hair.  
"Cause I thought about doing it." he answered simply, looking down at his hands.   
"Well," I begin, heaving us to our feet and flushing the toilet before leading Patrick out of the washroom. "I promise I'll make you never want to think about it again. Come on, let's go relax or something. I'll get a blanket, you go pick the movie."

* * *

"Yeah right," Patrick calls at the movie, shifting a little in his position. He'd found his comfortable place nestled right on top of me, his head resting on my chest while his body between my legs. The fleece blanket over top of us is providing more warmth than I had imagined, and I can honestly say, without the shadow of a doubt, that I am more comfortable right in this moment with Patrick than I have been in a considerably long time. I smile at his comment, looking up at the phony horror movie depicting ghosts terrorizing a young family that Patrick had chosen as the second film for us to watch. The first was some psychological thriller that almost bored me to tears, but this? This is my shit. I live for horror flicks, good or bad.   
"What? You don't think it's real?"  
"Not even close, man. Ghosts can't drag you down the stairs."   
"They could if they had the ambition."   
"You're a dork." 

The movie drones on for awhile, neither of us paying a huge amount of attention to it, when Patrick finally falls asleep. I watch his back rise and fall with each slow breath, watch his hair move in wispy strands as my exhale blows through a few strands. Our hands interlocked at some point, beneath the blankets, as if it was yet anther comfort thing, Patrick being frightened by the movie and looking for something to keep him grounded. He looks so peaceful while he sleeps. It's almost as though I don't want to ever wake him, knowing that the day will bring horrors and new obstacles for him to conquer. For a moment, I think that I'll join him in his peaceful little slumber, until I hear the door shut in the foyer just behind me.   
"What the hell is going on?" 


	7. Confessing Their Philosophies (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been way too long and I do apologize for that. Please forgive me! The second half if this chapter is still in the works, so thanks for being patient. I just wanted to have this up so you guys didn't give up on me. Thanks!

**Brendon**

He promised me the world and now I've got it in my hands. 

Perhaps it's foolish or reckless of us to jump back into the game so hastily, but what we have in this moment feels better than anything. The warmth of his body in the bed, next to mine, is not a beacon of sexual tension, but rather a bright alarm of hope in an otherwise dark and unpromising world. Hope that we'll trace our steps back the way we came and find that hum of two hearts that beat for none but each other, hope that we will find out who we are in the mix. 

I don't know how long I've been awake just staring at him next to me. How small and fragile he looks while he sleeps, his face taut and pretty, the way all people look while they sleep. All at once I want to reach out and touch him; run my fingers overtop of his spotless skin. But I am too afraid that if I touch him in the wrong way, he'd shatter into a million pieces.

The sun streams through the window, casting a warm light over the both of us. Speckles of dust fly around in the beams. I watch a few of them twirl and dance in the air, following them until they disappear into Ryan's hair. Gently, I inch my arm out from beneath the blankets and reach out to close my fingers around a lock of dark brown hair. I remember times of our youth when I would lay in the bed with him and we would talk for hours, and I would play with his hair. 

And we would talk about our futures,  
and I would play with his hair. 

And he would cry himself to sleep,  
and I would play with his hair. 

I don't know what it is, but it brings me comfort. Comfort I didn't think I could give myself until I felt the way Ryan would relax beneath my touch, as if we were both each other's safe place. 

I twist the piece of hair gently around my finger and run my thumb over the smooth and soft strands, dropping it and starting anew with another lock of hair. 

"Sugarcane in, the easy morning. Weathervane my, one and only." I murmur softly, the corner of my mouth tilting up into the faintest of smiles as the lyrics fall from my lips. He wrote the song for me ages ago, back when we all rented a cabin in the woods for a month while we wrote Pretty. Odd. together. He had told me he wrote it out in the rain while he watched me inside, curled up on the couch with a fleece blanket around my shoulders. 'It all just came to me,' he said. 'You looked happy.' 

Suddenly, he shifts around in the bed, his legs tangling themselves with mine seemingly of their own accord. It's not until I feel his arms slip around my abdomen that I know he's awake.  
"That's my line." he mumbles tiredly, never opening his eyes but always keeping close to me. A tingle rushes over my entire body as I feel his warmth begin to envelop me.  
"Morning, baby." I say softly, bending my head down to kiss his forehead, breathing the ghost of a chuckle. He blinks his eyes open, the sun striking them from above and I catch a small twinkle before he squeezes them shut against the morning light. They're the kind of color you really admire. The color you see once and it stays with you, you never find the words to quite describe the beauty of it. They're brown, but not generically brown. There's the faint hint of something more, like a trace of gold swimming around the brown. Almost like looking at the sunlight through a glass of cool whiskey.  
He shifts again, this time pulling himself up towards me. He tips his chin down and presses the faintest of kisses in the hollow of my collarbone. I disintegrate.  
"Morning," he replies groggily his words vibrating against my bare skin, sending shockwaves of something foreign-- something missed-- all through my veins. 

He blinks open again, his eyes softer now. Inspecting me.  
I inspect him too, my eyes dancing over his features, his high cheekbones, rounded off with perfectly sculpted cheeks. His strong jawline with just barely a hint of stubble blooming. His full, pouty lips with corners that come to the gentlest of points with his smirk. He slips a leg over my waist, now straddling my body, but his torso is still pressed flat against my own. He feels warm, like he's just come out of a steaming shower. I close my eyes and let my senses take over, wanting to drink in every bit of him and hell, I just might.

This moment right here makes me feel like not a second of time has passed between us. Like we have woken up from a horrendous dream in our old bed in the old house. Spencer is next door, Jon is downstairs, and we're speaking sweet nothing's to one another in hushed tones, giggling at eac  
I feel his fingertips walk up my exposed side, feeling the goosebumps raise. I swear, in all my years, Ryan Ross has been the only person to ever have that ghostly effect on me. 

My eyes open, and I see him looking at me with nothing but happiness in his eyes. They're smiling just like he is, and I know he's feeling exactly what I do. "Did you sleep good?" I ask, bringing a hand up to card through his dark mess of hair atop his head. It's smooth between my fingers. Ryan leans into my touch, nearly purring at the sensation of my fingertips against his scalp. He hums in response to my question. 

"You look cute," I tell him, still watching him. He lays his head down on my chest, his ear blanketing my heart, and scoffs a little, his hand squirming around as it searches for mine. I feel our fingers interlock, and my heart leaps into my throat. Holding Ryan's hand is like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Something complete, and completely alive. 

He squeezes my palm, his thumb drawing little intricate shapes on the soft skin.  
"I probably look like I just crawled out of hell."  
"Demon or not, you're still as sweet as sugar."  
"And you're as cheesy as a hallmark card." he replies. I laugh. For a very brief moment, I almost let the words I've been dying to say for years slip past my lips, but I catch myself. _I love you, Ryan._

And I do. 

At least, I think I do. 

I remember him walking out the door of my life like it happened yesterday. I remember the day, the time, the way the air smelled, the way his eyes moved as I told him we were done. I never meant a word of what I said, I don't think I ever could. Even after the fact of everything, I still know deep down that I have never loved someone as dauntlessly as I have loved Ryan Ross. He's wormed his way into my chest, tightened his strings around my heart and refused to let go for anything. everyone else I've ever been with paled in comparison. No one could kiss quite like he could, no one could touch me like he did, no one ever _fucked me_ quite like he did. I was his and he was mine, and no one could take that from us. Except it all came apart somewhere and before we had a chance to pick up the broken shards of what we had left, our fingers were bleeding and we walked away with soreness in our hearts. 

That brings about a whole other realm of possibilities. Is there a chance that the two of us could ever work again? There's this hole in my chest because I'm flooded with uncertainty, but I can't seem to shake it. I need to know if this is a passing thing for him or if he truly feels what I do as well.  
"Kiss me." I say softly as if the simple gesture will provide me with some form of sureness, that I'll know right away if this is what I want to follow. But who am I kidding? I would follow him into the deepest, darkest of holes and he would still be the light to my darkness. 

He lifts his head and I see the most impish of smirks cross those full lips. God, he's beautiful and he doesn't even try. He draws nearer, and my heart skips what feels like several beats. He's been crashing at my house for the past four days, and all we've been doing is having this big 'cuddle me and never let me go' fest for the past while. It's a wonder we haven't had this discussion sooner, but I know why-- we're both afraid to. 

Closer still, until our lips are but a hairs breadth away from one another and I stop. Immediately, I regret the decision though, because when I peek my eyes open, he's sitting there with a mixture of hurt and confusion brewing in his eyes.  
"What?" he asks softly, his voice a broken whisper.  
"Is this real?" 

He smiles, his cheeks blooming soft pink. "Of course this is real, see?" he says, taking my hand and holding it over his heart. I feel the hum of his heart, steady but also fluttering. I smile.  
"No, but...But..."  
"What, Bren?" he asks me, again his voice soft and caring. I melt again at the sound.  
"You n'me." I answer simply, refusing to meet his eyes for fear of embarrassment. This could be all that we are, a passing memory, a temporary feel-good. But I do pray to whatever God that can hear me that we aren't. 

He cocks an eyebrow up, and his hand slithers up my chest. The very same way it used to when he wanted to get my mind off of a topic with more risqué activities. Except I know that's not what he wants. Or, at least I think that's not what he wants. He told me just the other night when I was feeling too frisky after a handful of beers. Not yet, anyways. His fingers lace up in my hair much the same way that I had done for him, his fingernails just grazing my scalp. 

"It feels real." he replies. That's so /him/. So vague, yet so poignant.  
"It does."  
"Then why are you asking me?"  
"Because I want to know...Like...Are we serious? About trying something out again?"

He pauses, a look of uncertainty flashing across those powerful eyes of his.  
"I think so, yeah." 

A feeling of relief should have washed over me, but it doesn't. I'm still filled with worry. He lives in California, I live here in Chicago. A full day of driving exists between us, and I know that neither of us can make that huge of a commitment and still make us work. 

"You think? Or you know,"  
Again, he's silent. But a smile pulls up on his lips and that full feeling of worry I had turns to ashes. In a second. This is it. 

Mornings are my favorite. Most specifically, mornings with him are my favorite. He smells like rainy days and cigarettes, his lips feel like individual pillows against mine, he looks at me like I am his endgame. He's a picturesque image of everything I have ever thought I wanted, but there's a heavy cloud of something overtop of him, something indiscernible. There's a red flag he's waving above his head that's emblazoned with the words 'NO THRU ROAD. EMOTIONAL CAR CRASH AHEAD', and yet, I need to push forward. It hasn't become a choice for me, it's become like breathing. It's simple, or at least it feels simple. But that's what it feels like when you're young and too blinded by everything you think you want to know what's good and bad for you. You forget the lessons you learn and the things your mama taught you all for the sake of a love that is bound for destruction.  
What I know is mere minutes feels like hours. He reaches up to twist a strand of hair around his finger, winding it in and around his other fingers until his whole hand is buried. Again, I almost let the three words dribble from my lip. 

When we finally decide that the world needs the two of us to make something of ourselves, he pulls me out of bed with the promise of something sweet waiting for me downstairs. Not with his words, however. With that lascivious look in his eye.  
I watch him first, blinking as the covers strike me in the face. He waddles over to the door, my pair of plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips and I catch myself eyeing the perfect little 'V'. 

His eyes are hooked over his shoulder, locked on mine while he wiggles his hips just slightly as if to entice me out of the bed. Good job, Ryan, it worked. He knows he's got his spell on me, and he knows how to use his magic to keep my head dizzied with thoughts and promises of a better future, though I should know better after 2009. It's like he's my drug, my intoxication. No matter what my wise-mind tells me, I'm bound to disobey and follow him anyways. 

I follow him downstairs, both of us doing more lazy shuffling than walking as we head into the central morning checkpoint-- the kitchen. To my dismay, he pulls up the plaid pants and pulls the seat out from beneath the table and plunks himself down in it. I watch him for a moment, observing how he drums his fingers on the glass tabletop, leaving little fingerprints in his wake, or the way he uses one hand to prop his heavy head up on. "Coffee?" I ask, grabbing one mug for myself out of the overhead cabinet and hesitating to grab another until he answers. 

"Coffee." he replies, his voice still gruff and weathered by morning. I set the mug I grabbed for him-- vibrant red in color-- beneath the nozzle of the Keurig coffee maker, pressing the button.  
"You want anything to eat?" I ask, opening the fridge to find a loaf of bread for myself. He's silent, completely, until I turn to look at him quizzically. The Keurig whirrs beside me.  
"No thanks, babe." he says with a smile. I frown a little, but turn my head back into the fridge. I don't particularly want to delve into an indefinitely painful conversation that that one could turn into. He's all sharp angles and hipbones, and not to mention he hasn't eaten much since he's gotten here, but whenever he seems peckish, he manages to scrounge up enough willpower to at least make himself a sandwich, which I'm proud of. There's no point in making him open his old wounds and expose them to me when he'll just go ahead and eat when he's hungry, no matter how much it worries me. 

I drop my two slices of bread down in the toaster and turn to face him, my palms resting on the counter behind me. He smirks at me, a darkness flickering over his eyes. One that I know all too well, and one that I'm afraid will get us tangled up in precisely the way Ryan requested we do not. 

"Those boxers are a little too tight." he comments, and I look down at my choice in boxers, a black spandex pair which, quite obviously, hugs each curve of my lower half. I smirk, giving him a shrug.  
"When you've got an ass like mine you've gotta show it off." He laughs at this, his eyes trailing upwards, lingering over my collarbone, the curve of my neck. I swear that in this second, he's visualizing everything he wishes he could do to me. I don't blame him-- I'm envisioning the same thing. 

Clearing my throat to derail the risqué train of thought before the lump in my conveniently tight boxers grows larger, I swivel myself to the side, taking Ryan's cup and stirring in the proper amounts of cream and sugar, sliding it to him.  
"You remembered," he says with a smile, his long and bony fingers coiling tight around the steaming mug. I nod triumphantly.  
"Of course I remembered. It's not that hard. Two creams and three sugars."  
"I know, I just thought...It's cool that you remembered." 

I guess he has a point. I remember the dumbest things. Every little insignificant detail about him in particular is locked away in a little golden safe in the back of my mind labeled 'Baby'. I still remember that he never smokes more than two cigarettes a day, unless he's had some incredible sex, in which case, he'll light one up. I remember that he cuts his food with his right hand and feeds himself with his left, that he takes a chai tea every night before bed, that he wears fuzzy socks in the summer, that he will almost never wash his hair before his body, or brush his top teeth bfore he brushes the lower, and that he will listen to old awful indie records from the 80's and 90's when he thinks he's alone, that sometimes he thinks it's okay to cry. I remember everything about him, down to the wire, and maybe it's strange, sure, but maybe it's a good thing. I think it's wonderful.

After my own coffee is finished, I set it before the empty chair beside him, taking my toast out and spreading butter and cinnamon over the slices. It's not a taste for everyone, but I've acquired a taste for spice on my palette.  
"You know," he says as I sit down beside him, taking a cautious sip of my steaming beverage. "one of these days you're going to have to take me out on a real date."  
Honestly, the thought never occurred to me. It may have in passing, but I was far too immersed in the pleasant and quiet domesticity to be bothered with worrying about that. Maybe in hindsight I should have. 

"You okay with Del Taco?" I reply sarcastically, taking a bite out of my toast, feeling the hint of cinnamon splash over my tongue.  
"You could have at least upgraded to Taco Bell for Christ sake."  
"You never were a cheap date." I say through a mouthful of toast. It's true though. Ryan liked to be treated to dinners out with bottles of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, dancing to follow. I never did dance well enough to never step on his toes.  
"I'm no cheap bitch," he sasses, a smile blooming on his lips, and I melt at the sight yet again. He has that infinite effect on me, and I know that as long as I live, if Ryan is smiling then I will be too. "I expect at least a loaded burrito and a brownie for desert."  
"Okay, okay," I say, holding up a hand and stopping his mouth from running away any further. "I promise, a real date."  
"Do you even know what a real date is, Bren?"  
"You don't remember that night out in London? I spent nearly $600 that night on you alone."  
"I was testing your memory."  
"Mhm." I say, both of us smiling now. His cheeks are red and my own are attempting to mimic the same hue. I know he's joking, I know he must remember that night. Or perhaps it's just my wishful thinking, hoping that he remembers us the way I do, that he remembers every kiss, every breath and touch with fine detail etched into his heart. 

"But you mean it?" he asks, now looking up at me with those wide cognac-colored eyes of his, blinking at me wishfully. I nod.  
"Sure. Maybe we could go out to the drive-in, Somethng relaxed for the first date, don't you think?" I ask. He nods, finally flashing me his pearly whites with that winning smile of his. That smile I got drunk off of every night in the hotel beds, muddled beneath the sweat-stained covers.  
"Soon?"  
"Soon. Not tonight, because I have a little surprise for you."  
"This isn't going to turn into a dick joke is it?" he says with a sigh, feigning annoyance.  
"Hah, no. _That_ surprise wouldn't be so little." I reply with a cock of the brow and an elbow to his ribs.  
"Please, Brendon, I've seen it."  
"And you liked it just fine."  
"Ehhh..."  
"You little shit."  
"Okay, spill, loverboy. What do you have planned?" He asks innocently. And I wish I could tell him, I really do. But it's been kept under lock and key since Ryan got here, really. That night, I had recieved a text message from none other than my oldest friend, Spencer Smith. 

Spencer has been in a rehabilitation center at the edge of the city, way out of the way and just about as far as it could get for someone driving through the freeway traffic. He's had his bouts with alcoholism and prescription drug abuse throughout the years, something that I've become no stranger to. I remember the first day he had to go into rehab, how scared he was, how he was clutching my wrist, falling hard into withdrawals. We were all scared for him back then. He's been in and out of Rehab for awhile now, and now he's back in, but this time, he assured me that he's better than ever, that he just may be off the poison for good.

As I laid there last night, watching Ryan in the moonlight with his chest rising and falling gently while he slept, I devised a plan. I knew that there had been a significant measure of time between Ryan and Spencer's last meeting, even speaking. So what better a time to surprise them both than with a visit from each other? Today, somewhere around two PM, it's my job to go and pick Spencer up from the center, and bring him home to Ryan. I can't wait for the look on either faces.  
"Top secret." I reply, smiling. "But will this tide you over?" I ask quickly, tilting my jaw to the side and leaning in close to press my lips to his. 

At first I was afraid he would pull back with some smartass comment, but I'm pleasantly surprised to feel his lips move against mine nice and smooth. We stay like that for a moment, and as I'm about to come up for air, Ryan's hand cups the back of my skull and holds me in place. The first sign of dominance that he's shown me in how long? I feel like my chest is going to explode. I feel a pinch, and a sliver of pain slithering down my jaw, but I soon realize its just his teeth biting down on my lower lip. And I thought I was the frisky one. 

I let a faint moan slip past my own lips and transfer onto his, my hands now moving forward, grasping for Ryan's body, wanting to feel him closer. Thankfully, he takes the hint immediately and transfers his body from his own seat straight onto my lap, never breaking the connection of our mouths. I can't be certain, but I can feel his desperation behind each movement, like this is something he's been biding his time for. 

When I feel a fire ignite in my lungs, I pull back for air, resting my forehead on his, unable to stop the panting. He smirks at me, sassy and triumphant. He knows he's got me hooked harder than he ever has.  
"What's the /matter/, Bren? Excited?" he asks condescendingly, grinding his hips down hard on my own. /Shit/. I hadn't even realized really until now that thanks to Captain Sex-Appeal over here, I'd developed an erection inside my tight little spandex boxers. I inhale sharply as I feel him grind on me like it's nothing at all, leaning forward to take the most supple part of his neck between my teeth. At once I feel his body tense up, his fingertips dig hard into my shoulders. His head lolls back and his lips part around a filthy moan, my own name tailing it off. I smirk against his neck, darting my tongue out to run over the bite mark in order to cool the sting. He shivers. 

He always had liked a little bit of pain, but just a little bit.

My hands slip down his torso, my fingers bumping over each rigid muscle until I finally reach the perfectly rounded swell of his ass, my fingers squeezing through the pajama pants I'm suddenly cursing. This is the most intimate that we have been in years, and God, does it feel incredible. He lets out a little whimper, his hands frantically trying to find a placement on my body, trying to draw my lips back to his. Don't have to ask me twice. He smiles when he kisses me this time, rotating his hips yet again. I gasp. 

"Bed?" he asks, out of breath, like my gasp sucked the air straight out of his lungs. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is messed up entirely. 

My eyes flicker to the clock on the wall and I feel my heart sink down to my feet. I have to leave in the next five minutes if I want to pick Spencer up on time. I'm disappointed, knowing he's finally opening up, he finally wants to feel me the way we've both been craving. And I have to leave. 

I shake my head dismally, looking down and away from his eyes. I feel his shoulders sink.  
"Why? Come on, just let me blow you or _something_." he suggests desperately, tugging on my hair pleadingly. Again, I _very_ unwillingly shake my head.

"Gotta go pick up your surprise. I'm on a time crunch babe." his pulse accelerates, his hands start to tremble and at the same time, my heart just shatters.  
"Do you just not want me?" He asks, his voice tired and broken, only adding to the internal battle I'm fighting between what my penis wants and what I know I need to do.  
"No!" I shoot back abruptly, praying that he doesn't think that I would ever actually stray from him in that way. "No, god no. I want you so badly, I just...I made a promise to you, and I have to do some footwork to get it done." 

He looks down at the obvious erection in his own pants and sighs dejectedly, slipping off of my lap and onto his feet. He folds his hands nervously in front of him, like a child who's just been told he's done something wrong. And I feel like the disciplinary parent who's just become the villain. I can't say I blame him either. Being flat out rejected once you have made a point to expose yourself and be one open is like twisting the knife in the wound. And he's bleeding out. 

"Hey, look at me," I prompt, reaching forward and grasping his hand, smoothing my thumb over the lines etched into his palm. Perhaps the first thing that I notice is how he doesn't coil his fingers around mine, they hang there limp while I play with them. I manage a frown. "Later, okay? Just you, me, and a bottle of wine. I promise." I offer. He looks up at me, his eyes more tired than when he had first woken up, and I know that there might not be a later. 

I am well aware that relationships are not my forte. All or most of the ones that I've had in my lifetime have failed in some way or another, and after awhile it becomes discouraging. But there's something in Ryan that makes me want to make everything work. He has an air about him that makes you never want to see him hurt, and while I'm the queen of hurting those around me-- I say queen because I have never had the balls to do it directly-- he just makes me want to _try_. 

I watch the blacktop roll beneath my car, my eyes fixated on the cement before me, following the hypnotic yellow line as it twists and turns. I don't think I've paid much attention to where I am, but I know where I'm going. One tends to lose track of time like that when they know the caliber of what they've done. Time seems to fly by in days, rather than minutes, everything dragging on; a broken record for the faint of heart. 

Trying to drown out the shattered sound of his voice is like trying to solve a Rubik's cube. It just doesn't happen easily. We haven't been in one another's company for more than four days and I have already done what I was designed to do right from the moment he showed up sopping wet-- fuck this up. 

I somehow manage to get my vehicle into the parking lot of the Rehabilitation Centre. The whole air of the place is macabre in nature. The outside of the building is but a ruse to draw you nearer. Lovely potted plants bloom in the flowerbeds just aside the doors, lining the terra-cotta walls. The windows are freshly cleaned, the sun striking them at an odd angle, sending blinding beams into my eyes. I turn my eyes down to my feet, toe a pebble out of my way and push on. 

The inside is just as much of a ruse as the outside of the building. Persian style rugs lead you from the door straight up to the broad, mahogany desk at the front behind which is a chipper attendant in a low cut top with her hair tied back. Lighting is dimmed only slightly, I imagine to deepen the color of the wood. My eyes trace the pattern on the rug slowly before I look up and barely dodge the wary patient on the way out the door with her father on one side and her mother on the other. The parents hold disdainful looks on their faces while the young girl-- who has thinned out far too much for the clothes she's wearing-- is gnawing on her chapped, discolored lips nervously, her eyes fixed on only her feet. She tells a story, this woman. Her eyes have seen hells that I cannot even imagine, her hands have touched intoxicants and bodies alike. However as weak as she may look, the knowledge that she is walking out the door today is a testament to the fact that she is a warrior that beat her crutch. I pray I will be able to say the same for Spencer. 

I rest my hands on the edge of the red wood of the desk and look down at the woman behind. She swivels in the leather chair and looks up at me, a smile already on her lips. "Hello, how may I help you?" _You could stop looking at me like that for starters..._  
"Uh, hi. I'm...I'm here to pick up a patient. Spencer Smith?" I say awkwardly, more or less fumbling over my words. Referring to Spencer as a patent feels like acid on my Inge-- sour and stinging. Like a huge mistake that I could have avoided with more clever thinking. Except whether I'd like to deny it or not, Spencer is a patient of this place. "Oh you must be Brendon." She says happily. When she smiles, the points at the end of her eyeliner tip upwards. "One moment."  
As she walks away, I lean on the counter, looking back down at the rug. I'm finding that if I look at this rug, it blocks out most of whatever else is going on around me. I hear the sound of the secretary trot down the hall, her heels clacking away, but then 

I hear something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck spring up in alert. Screams. You wouldn't think that at a therapeutic place like this, you would hear moaning and squealing. But then you remember that there are people here halfway through withdrawals. Spencer hadn't wanted me to see him during that stage, so I hadn't come by, and I'm almost glad I didn't. Seeing him looking like the Corpse Bride would be enough to make myself vomit on site. 

When I hear the sound of the heels returning, I hear a second set of steps along with it-- the soft padding of sneakers. My eyes snap up and I don't even register the woman speaking to me, but instead I'm fixated on Spencer Smith. Clean and free of his demons. My angel in faded blue jeans.

He smiles as he approaches me, his right hand fumbling nervously with a loose string on his bright white t-shirt.  
"Spin..." I breathe, my own mouth transforming into a smile. He mimics my facial expression and walks closer to me, opening his arms and inviting me into that broad chest that I'd found so much comfort in over the years. Still, Spencer doesn't say anything, but instead leaves the moment silent. Sometimes the silence should be shared in moments which words are not necessary, and Spencer has learned how to master that. 

I bury my nose in his neck and take a deep inhale. He still smells like fucking sunshine. "Brendon," he says, his hands squeezing my biceps as though he were testing the validity of my physicality, seeing if I am a real body or some figment of his imagination. A wet warmth tickles my neck, significantly pertaining to that of tears. I step back, and my hand traces the wrinkles in his shirt.  
"I did it." he mumbles happily, low enough so that the secretary with the prying eyes doesn't hear. Just between the two of us. "I fucking beat it."  
My the dips I'm my cheeks deepen with my grin. His eyes are bright, _happy_ for once in forever. They aren't glazed over, they aren't blown wide...They're just the same bright and green eyes that I'd met all those years ago.  
"Yeah, you did." I tell him. "and I couldn't be more proud of you."


	8. Confessing Their Philosophies: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for putting up with me taking forever. I love you all.  
> I noticed a significant decline in the hit count recently, after I added the new tags dealing with rape. If this is making you uncomfortable, I wanted to say that it is not dealt with directly. It's written in really cloudy, vague flashbacks. There are very, very few interactions in the present between the rapist and the victim. I wanted you all to know that it's all non-explicit, but I wanted there to be tags for those who require trigger warnings. Again, thank you for your understanding and support! New chapter to be up in two weeks time. I promise!
> 
> Also! If you have a tumblr, it'd be super cool if you could head on over to americannaexotica.co.vu and follow me! Thanks :)

**Brendon**

"There was this one chick in there-- total sex addict. She kept trying to get with me at the lunch table." Spencer tells me, his eyes twitching down to the fork on the table. He twirls it around his index and middle fingers, just like a drumstick. I smile.  
"What a stud you are." I joke back with a laugh, turning my eyes down to the table, drumming my fingers in a row softly on the red vinyl placemat.  
"Yeah," Spencer laughs, running a hand through his hair. "What about you, man? What's going on with you?" he asks. I shake my head and give my shoulders a nonchalant shrug. It's the truth though. Nothing is all that new. He already knows about Patrick, knows that I'm working on new music. But aside from that, there's nothing to tell.  
Almost nothing.  
A smile comes to my lips as I find myself trailing off, my mind wandering back to the bed this morning. How lovely it had felt to wake up beside him again. How warm it had felt to hold his hand in mine while he promised me a brighter future for the two of us.  
"Oh no. I know that look." Spencer teases, setting the fork down. He props his elbows up on the table and narrows his eyes at me. "You've got a friend."  
"I've got a lot of friends, dipshit."  
"Not a lot of friends you blush when you think about. Spill."  
I shake my head. As much as I want to gush to him about how sweet Ryan is, how we're acting like two seventeen year olds in love again, I know that I can't. I know that the big reveal, the big 'hey-look-who's-keeping-my-bed-warm-for-me' is going to be totally worth it.  
"Nobody."  
"You're a horrible liar." Spencer returns, his eyes flickering up to the perky waitress with our plates of food teetering precariously on one arm. She smiles at us as she sets each plate before each of us. I nod in thanks, and grab my fork, instantly shoveling a piece of broccoli in my mouth. Can't talk with my mouth full, can I?  
If only that would stop Spencer. "Come on, tell me." he presses through a mouthful of lettuce. I shake my head again.  
"I don't know why it's important."  
"Well for starters you're wearing their clothes."  
I look down at my choice in t-shirt and cringe. Naturally I chose one of Ryan's shirts to wear out today, even though his clothes are too small for me. Of course I did.  
Playing it cool, I shrug again and munch on another piece of broccoli. Spencer frowns, setting his for down. And if I know Spencer Smith well, I know he won't touch his food any more until my guts are on display.  
"Nobody." I lie again, this time grabbing the sandwich I ordered between my fingers, and taking a nervous bite.  
"I could keep going you know," he challenges. I look up with my brow cocked. "You don't smell like you normally do, but it's not a feminine smell, so that means whoever you've been messing around with is a guy."  
I nod.  
"Really? Sweet. So what's his name?"  
What the hell? I might as well just tell him, it won't change anything. At least I hope it won't.  
"Ryan Ross."  
Spencer, having finally scooped another little bit of salad onto his fork, stopped moving entirely, his eyes meeting mine. His gaze is full of disbelief.  
"No, seriously, who is he?" he asks incredulously. I can't say I blame him though. We did have the messiest break up of the year, hands down.  
"Ryan."  
A look of excitement settles on Spencer's face when he realizes that I'm not joking in the slightest. I smile.  
"No way."  
"Yeah way."  
"NO WAY!" he shouts. A few heads turn to look at us with worried glances. It's apparent that neither of us care, however.  
"Can you calm down?"  
"Ryan? Really?"  
"Yeah, really. Shut up and eat your food." I scold, looking around for prying eyes.  
"Screw the food, we gotta go to your place."  
"What?"  
"Pay the lady, we're going home, Brenny-Boy."  
"We just got here!"  
"My best friend, whom I haven't seen in at least a year, is at your house and we aren't just going to jump at the chance to see him? Bullshit, let's go."  
Reluctantly, I try to shovel what I can in my mouth before I throw two twenties on the table and follow Spencer out the door. He's practically bounding on his heels as he trots over to the SUV, a perma-smile on his lips. I swear I haven't seen him so excited for anything in years. 

When we get back to the house, Spencer is out and on the sidewalk in seconds. "Hold the phone, skippy. I wanna surprise him." I explain, fishing around for my keys in my pocket, trying to keep up with him.  
"Well aren't you the romantic."  
"I try."  
When the door is finally unlocked, Spencer inches in, peers around the corner. "This isn't Mission Impossible, just get in the house." I tell him with a laugh, gently closing the door. I hold my hand out in a gesture to show Spencer I want him to stay in one spot. He stands planted on the mat at the door while I go towards the kitchen, peeking around for Ryan.  
"Ry?" I call out into the empty space, hearing the sound bounce off the walls. "You home?"  
A tired grunt can be heard from upstairs, and I smile impishly. "Come on," I whisper to Spencer, starting up the steps. 

He reaches out and presses his fingers against the door, gently pushing it forward. Inside, Ryan is splayed out atop the red sheets on his stomach, his limbs haphazardly thrown and bent in the most peculiarly comfortable looking position. His head faces the opposite wall, pressed against the pillow. Spencer tiptoes forward, inching closer to the bed until his knees brush the duvet and he takes his cue to jump on. In the blink of an eye, he's straddled Ryan's hips, rotating playfully against them.  
"Get off me, Brendon. I'm not in the mood anymore." Ryan grumbles, burying his face into the fold of blankets just beside his face.  
"My name's not Brendon, dingus."  
Ryan's eyes are the size of dinner plates by the time it registers within him just who is atop him. Suddenly, the two bodies are a blur, Ryan's arms throwing around Spencer's body, Spencer toppling over and falling to my side of the mattress. Ryan scrambles for a minute and props himself upright, his hair a total mess, his eyes wide and bewildered, but what strikes me as most striking is the bright white grin he's flashing. His chest heaves in and out with each labored breath, but he's smiling. He looks up at me, and there's an unmistakable twinkle in his eye that gives my stomach the leeway to twist and turn and flutter. All has been forgiven.  
"Is this big lug my surprise?" he asks, playfully shoving Spencer, who retaliates by jutting him with his knee.  
"Were you expecting Shakira?"  
Ryan rolls his eyes at this and slips off of the bed, trotting towards me with open arms. He throws them around my neck, bending down just barely to capture my lips in his. I'd expected this particular kiss to feel _different_. Different how? I can't say. But different nevertheless. Now, however, I can feel that this is different in the most gentle of ways. The way his lips are pressed against mine are careful, curious even. The kiss itself is soft and tender and _warm_. My hands snake up and around his sides, holding him closer, my fingers absentmindedly smoothing out the wrinkles in the shirt he's wearing, which I've now realized belongs to me. A white button up that's just barely too big for him. One that's been getting small for me. Maybe I'll give it to him.  
"Ahem," Spencer scoffs, now sitting up. Ryan pulls his lips off of mine and blinks softly, our faces still close together. His dark eyelashes tickle my cheeks. "So when did this happen?"  
Ryan pulls away from me and looks up at Spencer, his arms moving from my neck down to my waist. I shiver. "About four or five days ago." he answers, reaching up to smooth down a tendril of glossy black hair that fell out of place atop my head.  
Spencer nods, his eyes shifting between the two of us. This must seem absurd to someone like him, who's witnessed our history together firsthand. To us, the road ahead is filled with sunny days, promises, first kisses and 70 degree weather. To Spencer, the road he sees for us is paved with blood and ashes, and the two of us are standing in the center with our dukes held high. I pray he's wrong.  
After a minute of agonizing silence, Spencer lifts himself off of the bed and heads past us, down the stairs and into the kitchen, telling us he's going to grab a drink on the way down. The two of us stay behind for just a moment. "That's a cute shirt, sugar, where'd you get it?" I ask him softly as he tries to pull away. He blushes.  
"A cute little shop called your closet."  
"They're open year round, you know."  
"They better be. I have a feeling I'll be shopping more often. Do they offer air miles?"  
"You're such a dork."

Hours pass and I hadn't anticipated having this much fun in one night. I don't think Ryan had either, considering I hadn't seen Ryan so happy in what feels like years. My sweet and soft spoken little Ryan is talking like he's been a mute for years. I cock my head to the side in curiosity, just watching him interact with Spencer. There were points during the day where I wasn't even included in the conversation while those two caught up, I just sat and watched from the sidelines like proud mother.  
When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the sky was less bright oranges and pinks and more inky blacks, the three of us end up watching the latest installment in The Big Bang Theory sitcom. I'm not even paying attention to anything on the screen, but instead I'm watching the two men in the couch across from me. I'd taken my post in the beige recliner on the opposite side of the living room, my feet tucked beneath my backside. My elbow is gracefully poised atop my kneecap, my fingers gently curved and placed on my jaw while my eyes fix themselves on anything that isn't the TV. Ryan doesn't seem all that enthralled with it either, his eyes drifting from the TV to the floor, to Spencer to the wall and then eventually up to me. His eyes trace the curve of my cheek, linger on my lips and then flicker away. Every now and then, I clear my throat in an attempt to have him look up at me, anything to capture those eyes with mine. He tilts his head to the side slowly, as if to accentuate the elegant curve of his neck. A smirk is on his lips as he watches my eyes trace the spotless porcelain of his skin, dipping over the tense muscles until I catch something small, but noticeable to me. A very little bite mark, a bloom of purple and blue on his milky skin. My gaze snaps back to his immediately, and when his eyes hold mine, his left eye flutters shut, his long, thick eyelashes barely touching his cheek as he winks at me. I feel a rumble in my stomach, a sweet feeling that I'd come to miss. Thank God for Ryan Ross.  
The room seems to fall away from me while I watch him. He looks like a princess perched high upon her throne with one leg thrown over the other, his slender foot angled forward, and his arm mimicking mine in the way it's poised gently on the arm of the couch, though it is draped over his lap instead of holding his head up, his long and bony fingers locked in a pyramid shape over his lap. I feel a vibration of sound tickle my skin, but I don't pay any mind to it. His eyes meet mine and it's as though I am captivated all over again. Damn him. He has this ethereal effect that brings me to my knees every time we touch, every time we speak with the way his lips form every word perfectly with grace and tenderness, as though each syllable had a purpose.  
His voice reminds me of a pearl-- cool and smooth, twinkling when graced by the sun. But he worms beneath my skin and tickles at my nerves, igniting something deep inside my lungs, a fire that burns hot and makes me want to sing every song I've ever known. He has no idea of the sheer power he has over me, and I'm certain of it. He can siphon the air straight from my lungs and I would pass on with a smile on my lips. He's my little spider and I'm trapped inside his web of seduction.  
"Dude!" Spencer snaps, calling my attention to him.  
"Hm?" I hum, my eyes lazily dragging over to his, resisting to pull away from Ryan.  
"Get the fuckin' door."  
Just as the words leave Spencer's lips, the doorbell rings seven times in rapid succession, filling the whole lower section of the home with the shrill sound of the bell. Unwillingly, I pull myself to my feet and trot myself over to the door. The man's shadow is visible through the translucent panel of glass in the center of the doors and instantly, I know who it is. Clamping my fingers around the doorknob, I twist the door open and smile up at none other than Dallon Weekes standing on my doormat. His eyes flicker from his feet up to mine, and he flashes me a warm smile.  
"About time." he complains, stepping past me and into the warmth of the home. He runs a hand through the mess of hair on top of his head. Bedhead, you could say. Thick sections of dusty brown hair haphazardly styled away from his face.  
"Sorry. Distracted." I laugh, shutting the door behind him.  
"Is that Captain Mormon I hear?!" booms Spencer from the direction of the living room. Seconds later, Spencer's bounding down the short hallway towards the two of us. I step aside so as not to take one of Spencer's excited elbows to the neck, my eyes once again fixated on Ryan trailing lamely behind Spencer, his hands stuffed awkwardly into his pockets. The sound of Dallon and Spencer catching up beside me turns to white noise as I watch Ryan. He draws his lower lip into his mouth, and chews on it absentmindedly. His eyes flicker around the room, sometimes fluttering over Dallon's face for a short period before he looks away with haste. He tiptoes forward slowly, withdrawing his hand from his loose pockets and sliding it into my palm, his fingers bumping over the deep lines etched into my palm, and down the length of my fingers, locking them once he reaches the tips.  
Finally, Dallon pulls away from Spencer long enough to take a look at something that isn't him. His eyes drift straight to Ryan, and I can feel him become rigid beside me.  
"Dallon, this is Ryan." I say, fighting nervousness. Dallon's thick brows meet in the center of his forehead briefly, his eyes never leaving Ryan's. The tension in the room thickens impossibly, even Spencer can tell.  
"Hey." Ryan says quietly, his fingers coiling tighter around my own.  
"Wait, Ryan as in... _Ryan?_ " Dallon questions. I feel like all the air has been drawn from my lungs. I nod, still keeping up the act that this is not the one meeting I had been dreading all day long. Years ago when I had been remembering Ryan's image in my mind more frequently, Dallon had been a source of comfort for me on those cold nights. I found the strength I needed to keep my head up above water inside the warmth of his chest, and him to be standing here, face to face with someone who had brought me so much heartache all that time ago must be like whiplash.  
"Nice to meet finally you, Ryan." Dallon says quietly, but there's this dark look in his eyes and I know that he's lying through his teeth.  
"So how about we all grab some drinks?" Spencer suggests quickly, sashaying out of the room and down the short hallway towards the kitchen. Dallon follows suit, but Ryan stays cemented in place. I look up into his eyes and he shakes his head, presses forward.  
"No, wait--" I say, my hand still locked with his.  
"What the hell?"  
"I don't know. Long story, I assume."  
"What did you tell him?" Ryan asks, his voice desperate. I frown. To tell him what I'd told Dallon all that time ago, 

_Bastard. Motherfucker. Lying, cheating scum. Hate him. Hope he drowns._

Ryan would have my heart on a plate. I shake my head. "Not important. Come on, let's go hang out with Spencer."  
Ryan is reluctant at first, but he does eventually follow me to the kitchen.  
Dallon is reaching up above Spencer's head to grab the fancy wine glasses from the top shelf of the cabinet on the wall while Spencer stirs a large, purple jug of what I assume is Kool-Aid.  
"Fancy glassware for Kool-Aid?" I ask. Spencer turns to me and smiles.  
"We have to maintain _some_ form of class." He returns. Dallon laughs. I release Ryan's hand to go tend to the mess that's come of the deck just beyond the French style doors leading outside. Pushing the foot open, I step out onto the still-damp wooden platform. It's slippery beneath my feet. I head forward and take a look at the two wicker couches sitting opposite each other and reach out to brush a handful of fallen leaves off of the cushions.  
"We're partying out here?" Comes Dallon's chipper voice from the door.  
"I'd hardly call us a party. A disaster waiting to happen, maybe." 

The rest of the crew files out onto the deck, Ryan still trailing awkwardly at the back of the group.  
"So," Spencer begins, flopping down on the couch, his arm spread up over the back, one leg crossed over the other one. "how about these two, huh?" He adds, wagging a finger between the two of us. Ryan looks more pale than I've ever seen him. He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing downwards.  
"Honestly?" Dallon begins, searching my face for whatever the fuck he's thinking of. It's always hard to tell with him. "I'd have never expected it."  
Ryan finally steps forward, taking the empty seat beside me, his eyes fixated on his toes.  
"I know, right?!" Spencer squeals. "Isn't it great?"  
"Fuck off," I mouth at Spencer who brushes it off with a shrug. I can't tell whether or not this is going downhill or not, but Dallon still doesn't seem all that impressed.  
A chilly breeze floats through the air between us, and Ryan scoots closer for warmth. All eyes are on us while I slide my arm around his waist.  
"Yeah, so I guess it kind of just happened. About four days ago, he showed up at my door, soaked. And he's been crashing here ever since."  
Dallon scoffs at this. I glare.  
"You two sure don't waste any time, do you?"  
"That's what I said!" Spencer chimes in, drawing his Kool-Aid towards his lips and downing a large sip.  
I shrug. "Whatever, right? We're only young once, might as well be reckless while we can."  
"The fuck was that?" Spencer barks, swivelling around in his seat to view the rest of the backyard. The rest of us follow his eyes out to the darkened yard.  
"What?"  
"Listen--" he says, sticking his finger up in the air to signal us to quiet ourselves. Sure enough, in under ten seconds another sound fills the backyard.  
"What the--?" Dallon says, standing up now, and starting down the steps towards the edge of the yard. The sound continues, this time accompanied by scratching and pawing. Now even I'm curious. I straighten my back and look over the white railing and down to the grass below us, my eye catching a little golden glimmer.  
"Right there!" I shout at Dallon who's taken it upon himself to go ahead and investigate. I thrust my arm out and stab a finger in that direction. He follows my line and out of the shadows peers a small raccoon.  
"A fucking raccoon?" Spencer spits, shooting up from his seat and heading down the steps and out to where Dallon is standing, just feet away from the raccoon.  
"Don't they carry like...Rabies?" Ryan asks quietly, his eyes glued to the two men below as well.  
"Yeah. Guess you n'me are the only ones making it out alive." I joke, nudging him in the ribs with the side of my elbow.  
Ryan nods. I open my palm and lay it on his kneecap and run it up and down the length of his thigh, his body slowly starting to loosen that tense feeling. I smile.  
"That's better. Now let's try to have a good time, hm? Spencer's home, we should be--"  
"There's like an army of them!" Spencer yells, and I spring up to take a look, ignoring the look of annoyance on Ryan's face.  
Sure enough, there's a group of the things gathered at the fence. Dotting my eyes over them, I count what must be eleven raccoons, huddled together, all of their beady black eyes pointed at the two men before them.  
"Don't fucking provoke them you idiots!" I call at them. It's like I'm a grade school teacher, trying desperately to keep the munchkins in line. Ryan stands to meet me, resting his hands on the railing, his eyes trained on Spencer and Dallon.  
"You just got out of rehab and you're already chasing another hospital visit?" Ryan asks monotonously after Spencer. Spencer releases a little snicker, inching closer and closer until the inevitable happens-- one of the creatures lunges out at him. Dallon gasps, stupidly jumping forward to Spencer's aid. A second raccoon jumps out of the crowd, it's pointy claws poised and aiming for his calf.  
"Dallon!"  
He whips around at the sound of my voice and catches the raccoon just before he's clawed, and just like that, the rest of the raccoons come busting out of the woodwork, clamoring after the two of them. Well, damn if they could run any faster. Spencer staggers to his feet and begins running around the perimeter of the pool, as if hoping to ditch them in the water. Dallon soon follows, narrowly escaping one of the larger raccoons. He chases after Spencer, looking over his shoulder every now and then at the horde of beady eyes pursuing them. Beside me, Ryan has succumbed to a fit of laughter, watching the scene unfold, and I can't say I blame him. The absurdity of this situation is comical all in its own, without the two bumbling idiots blindly racing away from a group of racoons.  
"Man down!" Spencer yells, turning around and attempting to shoo away the raccoons from a fallen Dallon.  
Jumping up, I trot down the steps, cautiously heading towards Dallon on the ground. "Jesus, are you okay?!"  
Dallon twists around on the ground to get a better view of myself and Spencer, a guttural groan escaping his lips. "Fine." He mumbles, trying to get his hands beneath himself to hoist himself up.  
"Here," I offer, sticking my hand out for him to grab. I flick my eyes up at the group of animals, watching them with narrowed eyes. It's so strange to me, knowing that raccoons are solitary animals and yet, there's an army of them attacking my best friends in my backyard. Thankfully though, they seem to be retreating towards the bushes the more Spencer yells in their direction.  
Dallon thrusts his arm out and he clamps his fingers around mine, pulling down on me. Stumbling, I manage to get back upright, pulling Dallon with me.  
He's got grassy streaks on his jeans, his shirt is missing a button, and his hair is maximally disheveled.  
"What in Christ's name possessed you to take on a group of fucking raccoons?" I spit at him with a laugh. Dallon's eyes flick down to his feet in a shameful manner, his hands awkwardly finding his pockets. "Golly, don't be so mad at me mister. I'm real sorry I wrecked your yard." He responds, almost tauntingly.  
"Whatever." I laugh, playfully hitting my palm out and shoving him in the chest. 

***

**Ryan**

I can say without a shadow of a doubt that Dallon Weekes is going to become one of my worst enemies. I'm not a numbskull, I can see it plain as day; he's got a little boner for my boyfriend. The way he looks at him as if he's gripping onto every word, the way he laughs at almost anything Brendon does or says, the way he's always fidgeting with his shirtsleeves to make sure he looks proper at all times. Normally, I wouldn't bat an eyelash. I flirt in much the same way, but now that it's happening right under my nose, to _my_ boyfriend, little oblivious Ryan Ross suddenly grows a sense.  
It's best not to say anything. Not until something pops up that deserves attention, anyways. I know that Brendon's been unfaithful in the past, but I have to put all my faith in the fact that he's going to be faithful this time around. Because if he isn't, I don't know what's going to be left for me in this big old world. Certainly not the whirlwind of a mess that I left back in Los Angeles. I can't go back there, not after what happened to me. So Brendon is my back up plan, my solace and safe-house. The only reason I'm not flat on my back with my pants around my ankles and a crack pipe in my hand right now. 

On a lighter note, the four of us have settled down in the living room, the TV droning on in the background while all eyes are stuck to Spencer. And I mean, who could blame us? Spencer's a flawless human being as far as I'm concerned. I'm practically in his lap as he retells all his stories from the other side, as I call them anyways. In vivid detail, he explains the odd characters that graced his presence, and the beautiful thing about the way he tells us all his stories, is that he speaks so highly of each of the people. Like every person he ever met in there was special and unique and strong.  
"There was this one girl who looked like she'd been through hell and back. Her name was Erin. Rough, rough life. Parents rejected her, she was out on the streets at 15, date raped and ended up living in a coke house. But you know what? She was the most insightful, resilient person I'd ever met." Spencer explained. I don't know how I'd ever be able to do it-- be inside the walls of a building that I detest and still find the will to be a decent person to the others around me.  
"Did they at least have some sort of musical therapy?" I ask, my elbow propped up on my knee, my palm holding my chin up. Spencer barks out a hint of laughter and he shakes his head from side to side dismally.  
"I wish, honestly." He answers. "They did have a toy xylophone, though. That gave me hours of fun."  
My eyes flicker over to Brendon, sat across from me, his legs folded beneath him, his hands toying with a small, knit hackey-sack. Absentmindedly, while my eyes are fixated on him, I reach up to the base of my neck and paw at the spot where I know a thin, purple mark is blossomed on my skin. A smile slowly forms on my lips as the images from the morning cross my mind. It sends a vile, sickly feeling deep into my stomach when I realize just how deep I'm in already. I told myself again and again that Brendon Urie is dangerous to my sanity. But how can I resist him when he's so damned sexy? For me, it's like every movement has a rippling undertone of seduction. Every flick of the wrist, every jovial hum or sharp intake of breath has me crafting dark and titillating scenarios in my twisted up little mind that do nothing but make me want to shed my clothes. Thing about us is that before we were together, everything was about sex. Now that we're together again, everything is still about sex, and I'm teetering on the very edge of wanting that to change and wanting to, if we're putting it bluntly, fuck him into next week. This morning, perched on his lap, feeling him harden between my legs, I was certain that that's what I wanted. That I wanted that comfortable, sexual familiarity with him again. After all, sex is all I've ever been good for, hasn't it? It sure as hell wasn't music. But rejection is a difficult pill to swallow, and I can't say that I'm going to be able to withstand another bout of rejection.  
The two of us have always been...Precarious at times. Always blindly holding onto a rope that's barely tying us together. But the fact that the frayed rope is still holding strong stands as testament to what we could be, if we just lay down our guards and give it our best.  
Brendon grips the hackey-sack and tosses it over the coffee table, just enough force behind it for it to land in Spencer's lap. The action knocks me out of the state I always seem to get stuck in whenever I look at him-- lost. Spencer laughs a little and tosses it back. "All in all it wasn't a terrible experience. I mean, it had it's ups and it's downs but what doesn't, right?" He explains, holding out his hand for Brendon to toss the toy back.  
"You're so insightful, it's making me sick." I say, feigning disgust at the man, jarring him with my shoulder.  
"Lighten up, Ryan, we're all having fun here." Spencer teased back. _Yeah, all except one of us_. I think to myself, my eyes flickering over Dallon. The whole night, I'd been noticing situations in which Dallon would watch me. Brendon would reach out and touch me, a gentle show of affection, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Dallon with his eyes glued to us, his eyes narrowed to slits, his shoulders squared and rigid. Much the same way he's looking at me now. His eyes are staring into me, and I feel like they're burning my insides out, rotting me from the inside, all because I'm perceived as an outsider.  
Awkwardly, I pat Spencer's knee and rise from the couch, my eyes catching the cushion shift with the absence of weight. "Grabbing drinks. Anyone want anything?"  
Spencer shakes his head, Brendon and Dallon following directly after. "Suit yourselves."

I have to say, it feels nice to be in someone's home, someone who should be a stranger, and have free reign to roam about and feel at home. Home for me was wasted long ago, and this feels warm, comfortable and everything that's been missing for me.  
Wandering into the kitchen, I reach up into the cabinet aside the fridge and grab a tall glass, setting it gently on the island behind me. Next, I sink to my knees and open the liquor cabinet, my eyes fluttering over all the different bottles, the intricate designs on the few more expensive liquors, then the too-fancy bottles of wine. Gifts from record execs, I'm assuming.  
Settling on the cheaper side, just to be safe, I close my fingers around a white bottle neck, pulling out the palm tree clad Malibu, setting it next to my glass. Next up, I open the fridge and pull out the first little green can of Seven-Up I can find, turning on my heel and feeling my blood run a little cold.  
"Changed your mind?" I ask quietly, swallowing thickly as I scan my eyes over Dallon standing in the entranceway to the kitchen. Coiling my fingers around the can and popping the tab.  
"Don't you think that drinking liquor in front of Spencer is a poor choice?" Dallon spits, his eyes locked on the Malibu set beside my glass. As if to test him, I unscrew the cap and pour a decent amount in my glass, watching the clear liquid splash against the walls of the glass.  
"Don't you think that telling me what I should and shouldn't do in front of _my_ best friend is a poor choice?" I return calmly, cocking an eyebrow up at the man who's obviously trying so hard to be intimidating, and he's accomplishing much the opposite. My words seem to have had an affect on him, whatever that be. He steps forward some, his shoulders still squared and stiff, his gait more militarized than casual, as if he's anticipating conflict. Not that he shouldn't at this point.  
He walks closer towards me, and I straighten up noticeably, on high alert now. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I mix my drink, as he rounds the corner of the island, his hand barely touching the granite as he moves. He's just a foot away from me now, I can almost feel his breath on my neck.  
"You hurt him, you know. Brendon." Dallon finally says, his voice low and even. So that the only person hearing his words is myself. I feel my stomach twist in knots at the mention of Brendon post-me. The image of him running into the arms of someone that wasn't me for comfort, bashing my name and sobbing into his chest, it's enough to make me want to hurl. I glance at Dallon briefly, only to roll my eyes.  
"And he didn't hurt me?"  
"You left him. He was heart broken."  
"Oh, yes. So fucking heartbroken after cheating on me, lying to me and stealing my song. So heartbroken." I snap back at him, my body now squared towards him, my chest puffed out just a little bit. I'm tiny, and probably not the least but imposing, but I'm pissed. Dallon seems to be at a loss for words now, his jaw clenched tight, his hands shaking at his sides. "Look," I begin, my voice still as low as his. "I don't know what your intent is here, Dallon. But if it's a fight you're after, I have no problem taking you out back and showing you that it's never good to meddle in other's affairs. Now," I say, grabbing my half emptied pop can and slamming it down in front of Dallon's hand. "Take this. Go back into the living room. And pretend this conversation never happened."

* * * 

Broad hands circle around my shoulders, and I'm surrounded in the familiarity of my best friend's chest. He's warm, his heart thrums heavy and thick against his chest, and I'm reminded that I waited far too long to return home. Spencer pats my back enthusiastically as he pulls away, his hand lingering on my shoulder. "You and I, man. We gotta hang out soon. Lunch or something." He prompts, his bright blue eyes stuck to mine, searching for that old companionship we used to share. I smile back at him, blanketing his hand with my own.  
"Definitely." I reply. That companionship certainly hasn't died, even though it's been awhile for us. The both of us have something born in childhood that will carry us through the rest of our lives without a doubt.  
"Call me. You two kids play it safe for uncle Spencer's sake, alright?" He jokes, his eyebrow cocked up, a hand and a foot halfway out the door.  
"Always, Captain." Brendon responds from my side, a hand snaking around my waist. Spencer winks at him and waves his hand one last time before finally heading out the door. Finally, the house is empty, aside from the two of us. Dallon left shortly after our brief confrontation, jittery as he sipped on his half emptied pop can, leaving with the excuse that he was going to be late for his daughter's piano recital if he didn't leave. No one questioned it, thankfully for both of us. For the time being, refraining from contact with this Dallon character is definitely preferred.  
Brendon grabs my waist and pulls my body flush against his, and I can't help but grin as shyly as I can.  
"I'm...Sorry...About...Dallon." Brendon says, kissing a different place on my face between each word, first my forehead, then down to my cheek, then my nose, and finally my lips. He's gentle, and so bloody affectionate. I shake my head, brushing it off.  
"It happens. I'm just a tense guy, I guess."  
Brendon shakes his head and rests it gently on my shoulder, his nose bumping against my collarbone. I feel his lips curl into a tiny frown, and instinctively I move to rub circles around his back. "It's not you, it's him. He's stuck thinking that we're gonna break each other again. But I don't really want to think about it anymore, can we just go to bed?" He asks gingerly, pulling on my hands now. Not really wanting to push the matter myself, I nod and follow Brendon's lead as he heads up the stairs, his hand still locked with mine.  
"You still...You still smoke weed, right?" Brendon asks suddenly, releasing my hand. I smile at the absurdity of the question. Not that Brendon would know much about my past history with drugs aside from weed and cocaine, but let's just say I'm not a stranger to the world of narcotics. Nodding, I release his hand and move to sit on the bed, folding my legs up underneath me. Brendon is standing in front of me, his body hunched over the nightstand drawer, his hands inside and searching for something dealing with marijuana.  
"I forgot you smoked this stuff." I laugh, shaking my head. I shouldn't have, really. There were countless nights when he and I would share a joint and stare at the roof and contemplate our futures like we had a clue what was coming.  
He stands from the drawer, a little bag of crystallized buds coupled with a bright pink lighter, a small grinder and a flap of rolling papers in his hand. He sits beside me, and drops one of the little green buds into his grinder, closing it and twisting the base. I can't help but smile at how he looks like a seasoned professional with his precise movements. He isn't fumbling with the grinder or the rolling papers with trembling fingers like he used to.  
"Here," he says, holding out the finished product to me between his fingers. I reach up and grab it, placing it between my lips, and as I reach for the lighter, Brendon tugs it out of my reach and flicks it himself, holding it up to the end for me.  
"Such a romantic." I snark, closing my lips around the end and inhaling the musty smoke. It burns my throat, but it's nothing I can't handle. The end of the joint glows a bright orange, and wispy strands of white smoke float into the air above us.  
When I exhale, the smoke that falls from my lips is thin and pallid and blows past Brendon's face. He blinks against it, and dodges the little cloud.  
"Good?"  
"Great." I reply, coughing a little, my cheeks blooming red. Brendon takes the joint from between my lips and places it between his, pinching the end of it.  
"Go ahead and get comfortable." He prompts, nodding at the bed. A warmth slithers down my spine, settling at the base and spreading out, warming my whole lower half. Something about being prompted to 'get comfortable' sounds undeniably sexy, to my ears anyways. Especially with the way his voice sounds, so low and inviting. I nod, coming to my feet and circling to my side of the bed (are we at that point? Do I have a designated side?) with my feet shuffling on the soft carpet.  
It doesn't take too long for me to undress myself. The whole time, my eyes are locked on Brendon's back, the way his shoulders move and contract when he inhales. He's got all sorts of skin I'm itching to rediscover, and he damn well _knows_ it.  
By the time my shirt's in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, Brendon's holding the joint out to me again. Gratefully, I take it and place it between my lips as I shimmy out of my jeans and place them with my shirt and socks. I inhale deeply, my eyes flickering up to glance at Brendon as he undresses himself, his abdomen tightening as he sheds his shirt first. His physique is incredible-- far more developed than the last time I'd seen him skin to skin. He's got muscles in places he never used to, and the one thing that I'm growing-- no pun intended-- to notice is how much the swell of his ass has changed. It's rounder, _thicker_. All I've found myself craving is the ability to sink my teeth into that white, soft skin. The heat at the base of my spine moves forward, wrapping around my hips and seeping into my groin and I feel it harden just a little at the sight of Brendon undressing for me. His cursed boxers hang low on his hips, the top of his ass barely visible.  
"God, you're hot." I claim, pulling the blankets back, the joint still burning on my lips.  
"Speak for yourself, angel." Brendon teases, sliding beneath the pulled covers, reaching out his hand to pat my flat stomach. "Now gimme that thing before you smoke it all."  
Rolling my eyes I pluck the joint from my lips and pass it off to Brendon, sliding up beside him.  
"You think I'm hot?"  
Brendon doesn't answer me immediately, instead he inhales and puffs his smoke out in small rings, watches them float high above his head. It's now, watching the rings of smoke dance and twist above us that I feel the effects of the marijuana set in. My head begins to feel fuzzy, my limbs heavy and relaxed.  
"Of," Brendon begins, pausing to cough. "Of course I do. Hot, sexy, vivacious, any derivative of the word, and I could make it an adjective for you." He says with a wink. My eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, watching the rings dissipate. Half of what Brendon says floats in one ear and then out the other one, and leaves me confused. Confused, but with a dopey smile on my face.  
"Hm?" I ask after a moment of silence between us, which Brendon giggles at. God, he has the most adorable giggle. Tinkling and sweet.  
"I said you were vivacious. But I think you're too high to remember what that means."  
"No...Nah, I got this shit." I drawl, pawing absentmindedly at Brendon's stomach, noticing him twitch under my touch. "Uh...Vivacious is like attractive and shit, right?"  
"Congrats, you fuckin' meathead."  
"Hey. Hey....Hey. No."  
Brendon shakes his head and chuckles under his breath, holding the joint up to my lips for me when he notices my hands are preoccupied by toying with his bare stomach, fluttering over his belly button, and truth be told, now that I'm stoned, it's like his skin is the softest damn texture on earth.  
"Oh shit, I'm sorry." I laugh, moving my hands away.  
"No, don't stop. Just take the hit." Closing my lips around the joint, I take what I anticipate to be my last puff for the night.  
"Easy there tiger," Brendon chuckles, pulling the joint away and stamping it out in the ashtray beside the bed, the dying smoke spreading through the air. He twists back to face me, and though my head is dizzy, I can still say that his eyes are the most brilliant that I've ever seen, even more vibrant in colour now that they're glassed over. "My turn." He purrs, his voice low while his mouth inches towards my jaw. His warm hand spreads out over my waist, and it's like every nerve ending beneath myself skin is on fire. I feel everything. The callouses on his hands, worn from years of endless guitar playing scratch at my hip as he rubs his hand sensually side to side while his mouth busies itself with pleasuring my own mouth. Our lips meet accidentally, as I'm craning my head to the side, but it's a welcomed accident after all. He smiles into the kiss, and I can still make out the taste of smoke on his tongue as he slips it past my lips. His hand gropes at my rear, squeezing tight and massaging slow circles with the heel of his hand while his tongue performs within my mouth. All my senses are on high alert and it's as though I can't figure out what to pay most attention to.  
Praying my breath isn't that horrendous, I welcome his tongue, widening my lips and flicking the tip over the underside of his. He pulls back just a little, if only to catch his breath before he dives straight back in.  
I feel like I'm in a dream. Just this morning, I sulked around my ex-boyfriend turned new-boyfriend's house after he turned me down flat when I opened up and threw myself at him. Now, it's him who's throwing himself at me, and I can't help but wonder how I can make the situation just a little more sweet.  
I slither my hand up Brendon's abdomen, circling his hip and trailing my fingers over his ass, much the way he had done for me. Except this time, I slide my fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers, grabbing a handful of his thick skin. A warm rush of air fills my lungs as Brendon desperately sighs in my mouth, pulling away to look at me, his eyes half-lidded and glazed, his mouth half open.  
"I want you." He pants, moving his hand up to my hair. His fingers move over my scalp, drawing tiny indiscernible shapes.  
"And what makes you think I should let you have me after that little trick you pulled this morning?" I retaliate, my fingers curling and snaking down over his thigh, the little bristly hairs tickling the pads of my fingers. Slowly, I inch my hand back in beneath the waistband, and allow my fingers to teasingly brush against his semi-hard erection.  
In an instant, his grip on my hair tightens, and his eyes screw shut with a gasp.  
Just as I'm about to push the envelope just a smidgen further, Brendon's hand is on my hand, pulling it from his boxers.  
"I think maybe this is my chance at redemption, don't you think?" He purrs against my lips, tipping me onto my back. The pillows feel cold beneath me, but I can't be bothered to complain at a time like this. I don't think I've been this turned on in...Well, in forever. He grins impishly as he slides a leg over my hip, rutting himself against my own erection, his hips moving in fluid waves. Like he was born for this.  
"I think you're a genius." I respond, craning my neck back against the pillow so he has full access to my neck.  
"Good," he chuckles lowly, sending hot shivers down my spine, and again, straight to my cock. "Let's hope you'll still be saying that when I'm finished with you tonight."  
His mouth meets my neck then, and almost immediately, I can feel his teeth on my skin, his lips creating a little suction cup. I fight through the initial pain, my hand sliding up over Brendon's muscular shoulder, my nails biting into his skin and raking down the length of his back. Almost immediately, he releases the suction on my neck and pulls back with a pleasured hiss.  
"You're a kinky bastard, aren't you?" He laughs, his hips never ceasing upon mine.  
"You should know, darling. This isn't our first rodeo."  
"Rodeo, hm? Is that a hint?" He asks, his fingertips ghosting over my ribs, dancing over the scars that litter my milky skin. He doesn't know how they got there, and I'm damn certain that he never will. "You want me to saddle up and ride you, cowboy?" He adds, giving his hips a particularly hard twist as he grinds down again.  
"Don't push it." I laugh, shaking my head at the analogy. He's always been too quirky, even in the bedroom.  
He starts to move lower on my body, his lips leaving little purple marks all over my ribs and stomach as he slowly sinks further. Soon, his hands are gripping my thighs and his mouth, his beautiful, full mouth is dastardly close to my erection. Hewn smirks up at me, his eyes dotting over each of the hickeys he left before they finally meet mine.  
"You're gorgeous like this, you know." He says huskily, his hot breath teasing my cock through my boxers.  
"Please...Don't make me beg, Bren..." I pant. Sure, maybe it's pathetic, but I can't help myself anymore. He's so close, and we're mere centimetres away from our first sexual contact in _years_.  
"So eager," Brendon replies, his fingers featherlight on my thighs while he teases me even further. "I like it. Sexy."  
"Please."  
He chuckles yet again, this time, I feel the vibration rattle me, and I wince as I feel my dick twitch in my boxers. It's like he knows a hundred different sensations that are going to drive me up the wall with desire, leave me craving more and more. Finally, he parts his full lips and presses them gingerly onto the thick bulge through the thin spandex of my boxers. The feeling is warm, electrifying. I hum contentedly in response to the new action, jumping as his tongue darts out to paw at my erection. It's damp, and filthy and _fucking incredible_.  
"Brendon..." I whimper, my throat contracting around and silencing a louder, more boisterous moan.  
"Easy, the party's just getting started." Brendon laughs, going back to work his tongue swirling around in delicate circles. Another kiss, another devilish swipe of the tongue and I'm reduced to a quivering, whimpering mess completely at his mercy. It's then that he takes his hint and hooks the tips of his fingers into the waistband. They're cool on my thighs as he tugs them down, goosebumps raising all over, though I'm not sure those are strictly attributed to the change in temperature. By the time my boxers hit mid-thigh, my cock springs free and bounces against my stomach. Brendon's eyes noticeably widen, and the sight allows a proud feeling to settle in the base of my stomach. I've always been gratified in the size of my dick. It's not the largest dick out there, but it's a sizable eight inches anyhow. Back in the day, I used to joke that I had the biggest 'clock' in the band. Let's just say, I wasn't joking. Brendon comes in at a close second with a healthy seven, and by no means is that lesser than myself. He more than makes up for the missing inch with his ability to preform on the mattress. If I remember correctly, that is.  
"Jesus," Brendon mumbles, circling his bony fingers around the shaft, his eyes flickering between the tip and my own lustful gaze. "I forgot how big you were."  
"I don't know if I should be offended by that or not." I laugh, tipping my head back as Brendon starts to stroke his hand in long, smooth motions.  
"Shut up, I'm trying to be sexy." He laughs, his tongue darting out, flicking gently against the underside of my cock. If only he knew he didn't have to really _try_.  
"You're doing a fine job as it is." I tell him, my hand rising to card through his thick black hair.  
He smiles at my sentiment and brings his tongue to the head, lapping up the precome that's inevitably leaked out. Perhaps what I notice to be the sexiest factor about him is that his eyes are always locked on me. He's always searching my eyes for _something_ , and he always looks so innocent. There's always been something so...Exciting to me about the way my partner's eyes look almost virginal while they've got my cock in their mouth. Briefly, I look past Brendon and take a look at the curvature of Brendon's back, his ass perked high in the air and his head poised between my legs. It's almost elegant in nature, like the gentle contour of a swan's neck. A sharp sting of Brendon's teeth on the inside of my thigh. "Enough hickeys yet?" I ask with a laugh, my toes curling inward when his thumb swipes eagerly over the tip.  
"You can never have enough love bites." Brendon returns, looking up at me through dark eyelashes. He's like a dream all wrapped up in silky skin and salacious words.  
He turns his attention back to my cock, his head dipping down low, his fingers tightening on my thighs, his fingernails biting into the supple skin. At the same time as I feel his tongue draw my balls into his mouth, his index finger ghosts over my taint, sending my head into a dizzy spin.  
"Fuck, you're such a little cocktease." I chuckle, bundling up the blankets in my fists. He's a live wire, alright and he's all mine.  
He doesn't respond to me, instead he continues circling his wet tongue in slow circles around my balls, his mouth like an inherent vacuum.  
He pulls off with an audibly satisfying little 'pop', his eyes shifting back to mine. "You like that, hm?" He asks condescendingly, one hand still teasing at my taint, one stroking me languidly.  
"I like anything you do to my body."  
"Anything?"  
"Anything."  
His hand motions become a little more aggressive, his mouth always just barely an inch away. I'm not above begging, and I'm dangerously close to doing so when I feel his lips spread around the head of my cock, his tongue wetting as much area as he can. It's slippery and sinful and everything I'd imagined this moment to be like.  
He sucks softly, sinking down inch by inch until I feel myself hit the back of his throat. It's delightfully tight inside his mouth, the back of his throat tightening around a gag. He seizes up briefly, then backs off back to the tip. When his mouth pulls off this time, a thin stream of his saliva connects from his mouth to the head. It looks like something straight out of a pornography. He smiles, stroking his hand up and down a few times, spreading the saliva and lubricating the rest of the shaft that he can't fit in his mouth before diving back in and getting to work again, this time releasing a dark moan as he sinks down further.  
I notice his hand sliding between his own legs, inside his boxers and he starts pumping himself militantly.  
"You should let me do that, baby." I suggest cooly, moving my hand to knot with his hair. I slide my fingers slowly against his scalp and he pulls his mouth off again, his eyes dark and sensual when he looks up at me.  
"Tonight is about you. I can take care of both of us." He says with a wink. That's...Refreshing. I haven't felt all that taken care of in what feels like forever, and it might as well have been. Even though Brendon knows how to gauge just how rough to be while still maintaining gentleness. He whimpers, his back bowing down when his hand on himself falters. I giggle a little and spread my legs a little wider, as if trying to draw him in, to entice him. Though that can't be too hard, I hardly had to do a thing in order to seduce him.  
His lips part yet again and he's back to work, his he's bobbing eagerly up and down. Soon, a familiar heat begins to pool deep in the pit of my stomach, my head getting dizzied up at the thought of myself reaching a climax with Brendon. The prospect that this is just the start of a very long future with us, or what I'm hoping is a long future anyways.  
Gently, I start to thrust up into his mouth, feeling him start to gag a little with each and every thrust. Each moan that dribbles from his lips is more depraved than the last, making every hair on my body stand on end, my skin rigid with little bumps of excitement. He's filthy, and angelic at the same time and I can't decide what I like more just yet.  
"God, Brendon...That's it. Just like that." I whimper, tipping my head back, my head hitting the pillow hard. What happens next is blurry. I remember yanking hard on Brendon's hair, so much so that he starts to whine, I feel his teeth barely graze the shaft of my cock each time he slips up to the head, and I feel my back arch high off the mattress while he lets me fuck his mouth. His hair is stuck to his temples with sweat, his chest is flushed red and his body is shaking with his own impending orgasm.  
It starts in my toes first. A fiery, explosive feeling that fizzles for a moment before rocketing straight to my groin. "Brendon--" I gasp, but before Brendon is out of the way entirely, he pulls off of me, his mouth open and waiting. Before I have time to process what he's waiting for, it happens-- my climax peaks and thick, white cum shoots from the head of my cock and strikes Brendon right in the face. My entire body feels as though a hurricane has just run through it, my heart hammering against my rib cage, my eyes struggling to remain open, my toes curled up tight and my ass clenched up hard.  
It subsides quickly, the high beginning to dissipate along with the sheer euphoria brought on by that wicked orgasm. When my eyes focus long enough, I see Brendon sitting before me, one hand still slowly jerking me and one jerking him through the aftershocks of the climax, his chest heaving rapidly, his face streaked with shots of cum.  
"Sorry," I pant, my lips curling up into a permanent smile. Brendon shakes his head and withdraws his hand, now sticky with semen from his own boxers. He looks so fucking erotic like this, all sweaty and flushed, his face and his hands covered in bodily fluids. If I didn't know any better, I'd have called him one hell of a whore, but this is Brendon. _My_ Brendon, my lover. He looks sexy, and nothing less.  
"Don't be." He purrs, reaching down to grab my discarded shirt at the foot of the bed, using it to wipe himself clean. I'm still barely able to move.  
"So," he begins, tossing the shirt towards the bedroom and crawling up to relax on my chest. "Am I redeemed?"  
The laugh that rattles my body is perhaps the single real laugh that I've given anyone since I've been back in Chicago. It's vibrant and joyful and _real_ and I have no one to thank for that but the stunning picture of a man resting against me. "I think you're more than redeemed." He smiles and leans forward, his lips meeting mine gingerly. Deep in my chest, behind layers and layers of thick muscle and bone, I feel my heart tighten and swell, and I'm reminded that this is what I've been missing. Years in Los Angeles filled with nothing but utter turmoil when I could have been sidled up beside the sweetest, most affectionate man I think I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.  
Then again, maybe that's just the orgasm talking.  
We hold each other for awhile, sharing chaste kisses in the afterglow of our climaxes, ecstasy still thick and heavy in the air above us.  
"I think I like you." Brendon says softly against my lips, his sweet breath seeping into my mouth. My heart feels tender now. Like one touch, one more word and it will burst.  
"You like me?"  
"Yeah. I really, really like you." He answers, laying his head down, his ear blanketing my heart.  
"That's good," I reply softly, bending my neck to reach down and kiss the top of his head, the silky hairs tickling my nose. "I think I like you too."  
Sure, maybe it is too early for us to say the other four letter 'L' word. But like? Now there's a damned good place to start.


	9. "Angel, Angel, Down We Go Together"

**Patrick**

_"How do you find happiness in the days since your suicide attempt, Patrick?"_  
_"I...Well I don't know. I try not to think about everything too much. Then there's Pete,"_

I've never been able to hold on to my hopes for that long without them inevitably evaporating in my fingers. You can't exactly count being famous as a hope because I never wanted that. I'm not Patrick Stump, multi-platinum selling recording artist behind closed doors. I'm Patrick Martin Vaughn-Stumph, boy from Chicago suburbia in argyle sweaters and khaki shorts, obsessed with my vintage vinyls and pop culture.  
As absurd as it sounds coming from someone who identifies primarily as heterosexual, my hope for the night was to be held and told that everything would be alright. I don't think that that's such a strange thing as much as it is a human need to feel closeness and safety. And for me, Pete's always been my safe place. It's only natural that when I feel most alone, I turn to him to bring me that sense of security that people like me so crave.  
I guess you could compare my security to a thin pane of glass, in this instance anyhow. The moment the door opens and an accusatory female voice balks at us, Pete's body tenses below me and I'm almost instantly being shoved to the side. 

The glass shatters. 

"Meagan? I thought you were in Europe for another week?"  
I look up and watch Pete's girlfriend drop her bags hesitantly at her feet, her eyes shifting uncertainly between the two of us.  
"We wrapped early..."  
It's then that the tension settles over the room, thick and unwelcoming. Meagan has her hazel eyes trained on me accusingly. I glance at Pete to my right who's seemingly forgotten all about who was just sharing in his warmth. He comes to his feet and strides over to Meagan, tall and slender and looking as good as ever, circling his arms around her waist and pulling her near. Awkwardly, I drop my eyes down to my hands and stare at them, tracing the lines with my thumb in hopes that whatever's happening will just disappear if I ignore it for long enough. 

_"What about Pete?"_  
_"He makes me feel alive I guess... He's always been in my face.. We've practically lived on top of each other since I was 16... He knows what makes me smile and what makes me laugh and he hugs me when I need it, he doesn't even have to ask he just knows... Pete's my best friend."_

I'm jarred from my train of thought by the loud smacking of two sets of lips quite obviously trying to make up for lost time. Awkwardly-- it seems as though awkward is my middle name these days-- I rise to my feet and start shuffling towards the staircase just behind the couch I had just previously been so comfortable upon.  
"Going so soon, Patrick?" Pete calls, catching me and drawing me back. I turn slowly, my eyes dragging on the tile first and then slowly up to Pete's eyes, his arms snaked around Meagan, his lips tipped up into a grin of a man who's undoubtedly getting lucky tonight. And I'm the 30 year old cock-block shacking up in the guest room.  
"Yeah, uh...I'm just gonna go grab a sweater or something. Go for a walk, let you two catch up."  
Pete nods slowly, and I almost watch his smile fade from his eyes before I'm headed up the stairs again. 

The air outside is crisp. A whole hell of a lot like the air that tickled my skin the night everything vaulted downhill. In both senses, it's eerily chilling.  
I don't know where I'm going. When I look ahead, I see an endless span of twinkling lights and pavement, some bodies that belong to the night finding their way through the dark canals of the alleyways and streets.  
I must look no different than any other night crawler, a beanie tugged onto the crown of my skull in an effort to shield myself from the cold, at least a little bit.  
It's funny. The last thing that I wanted since this whole mess began was to be stuck alone inside my head with my thoughts, and now that's precisely what's happened to me after a very precarious night.  
First and foremost at the centre of my mind is this; Who am I? I know that I'm Patrick Martin Vaughn-Stumph, resident of Chicago, Illinois, I'm 30 years old, I am a musician and I am a Taurus. But what I don't know is whether or not I'm 100% straight. I have a wife. A very, very beautiful wife that I love profoundly.  
However after tonight, I'm struck with these peculiar feelings in my stomach. Feelings I'd never had to face while I was sober. I look at Pete and I feel awake. I feel like I don't have to run from anyone, including myself when I'm beside him. He's always had this quality that brought laughter and deep thinking with him wherever he went, like he could inject it into your veins by just simply looking at you. Being around him is _fun_ and maybe I’m going insane but maybe there’s something underneath these blue eyes that feels something more than friendship for Pete Wentz.

I should probably disclose that I have no idea where I’m headed. Sometimes its nice to just walk without a destination; to just go and see where your feet take you. I understand that Chicago at nighttime isn’t exactly the most ideal area to do such a thing, but hey, you gotta live on the edge every now and then, right? I’m walking underneath orange streetlamps and pale stars, my eyes transfixed on the cracked pavement I know like the back of my hand. Up ahead, I catch the glimmer of tiny little flecks of glass practically embedded into the sidewalk, like a summertime snowfall. I look to the pale light cascading onto the street, and bright red letters in attractive cursive typography reading; 'The Nook' upon the broad pane of glass separating myself from the inside. Looking past the lettering, I see a handful of people sitting at tiny circular tables, books propped up in front of their noses, steaming ceramic mugs set before them. As my eyes graze over the barista with her arms fumbling at the small of her back with the loose strings of her apron, she flashes me a small smile and gestures with a nod of her head for me to come in. My cheeks flush at the notion that someone caught me staring, but then again the idea of a warm cup of coffee is tantalizing to say the least. Huffing out a puff of breath, I push the door open, my eyes darting over the room. The 'Nook' is a more than fitting name for the little shop, only a few tables in the whole restaurant aside from the neatly decorated bar.  
A deeply rooted sense of nostalgia washes over me as I drag my eyes along the worn checkerboard flooring, the leather seats with the fine cracks, the silver panels on the old ceiling fans swirling overhead.  
I've been here before.  
I stride up to the counter, resting my fingertips on the edge, my eyes straining against the fog on my glasses.  
"Evening, sir." The barista asks, still fumbling with the strings on her apron. Shaking my head, I tilt my face down and pull my glasses off, looking up at her with blurred eyes.  
"Evening."  
"What can I get for you?"  
Up on the little chalkboard hanging behind the woman, colourful words pop out at me, but I can barely read from the selection.  
"Uh, just a hot chocolate please. To go."  
It doesn't take long at all for the girl to slide the small cardboard cup across the countertop towards me. Near the back of the restaurant, I spot an empty booth, and at once a veil drapes over my eyes. The feeling of nostalgia hitting me like a thousand bricks straight across the face. 

_Pete huffs out a tired breath, his cheeks rosy, his smile wide. I shrug out of my jacket, my eyes fixed on the powdery flakes of snow stuck to his shoulders. He asks me what I want to drink, tells me he's buying. I shrug, look anywhere but those goddamned brown eyes. Beneath the table, his foot knocks against mine, and my eyes shoot to his out of instinct. He winks. Fuck this guy. I tell him I'd like a green tea with honey. He let's out a laugh, and I watch the way his eyes crinkle around the edges when he laughs, how peculiarly white his teeth are for a 22 year old. He cracks a joke about me being pretentious for a nerd, but I roll my eyes and look back down at the table once he leaves to order. I barely know Pete Wentz. I know he's notoriously troublesome, that he's got a closet full of demons. But when I hear his voice, smooth and friendly, I feel as though there's far more to the guy than anyone's capable of comprehending. I don't know, maybe it's the yearning for friendship with someone light years ahead of me on the coolness scale, or maybe it's the teenage boy wanting to compare closets._  
_He returns to the table, setting the mug in front of me, teasingly flicking the little tag attached to the bag. I thank him shyly, looking down at the cup. Again, I feel his foot against mine. I look up and he's smirking, his eyes locked on mine. My heart skips several beats. He's got this wolfish look twisted up in his eyes, his mannerisms even. The way he's trying to appear so suave, so... Flirtatious. He sips on his coffee, clears his throat and looks back to me. Another knock of his foot against mine. We talk about everything from movies to politics, from life to the afterlife. We're youthful souls hanging onto the final shreds of innocence we still possess. We're car crashes waiting to happen, we're living and breathing ghosts of the dead dreams out parents built for us. We are young and we are reckless and we are finding ourselves. We are finding each other amongst the noise. He is my best friend and I barely know him. He knocks my foot again. This time he doesn't pull away_

When I'm back in the moment, I'm in the booth. My fingertips are lingering over the leather, as if every fibre holds a memory. I manage to look up from my drink long enough to stare straight ahead and envision Pete across from me again. The whole restaurant falls away. Leaving us alone in the silence, making our own quiet noise. Pete's hands touch mine, his fingers toying with mine, my fingers finding the space between his. There is warmth between us, there's words we don't even need to breathe because our bodies convey everything left unsaid. There's a space between us that evaporates with the sudden movement of Pete's body, stretching across the table, his pouted lips touching mine. 

I'm back at the table. Alone. 

What possesses one to fantasize about their best friend's kiss in such vivid detail? Christ, I don't know. I could ask myself a thousand times and I couldn't come up with a better reason other than the cold, volatile slap of reality across the face; sheer attraction.  
Denying it will inevitably make me lose my grip again. Possibly it's better to embrace what I've got held up in my chest. Then again maybe it's not. I mean, Pete's got Meagan. And I'm not stupid, I know what they're up to right now. They both had 'REUNION SEX' printed clear across their retinas the second they spotted one another. And who does unstable little Patrick have to run to at a time like this besides an empty bed in an empty home with nothing but a bathtub stained with blood to keep me company?  
I guess I shouldn't be as bothered by it as I am. I had more than my fair share of chances to take advantage of Pete's advances. All his sweet flirting and trying to bring me out of my shell. I should have noticed, we could have been so much together. But I was stuck inside the notion that it was wrong, that we're completely different and for that reason we could never be more than Pete and Patrick; best friends forever. I labeled myself ignorantly as straight. If only if anticipated the whirlwind who's name haunts my every thought as of recently. I'll say it again; fuck Pete Wentz.  
I left the coffee shop in a rush, the memories brewing around my head too much for my fragile, anxious mind to handle in the moment. Again, my feet are carrying me along a path that I must recognize somewhere, but the maps of Chicago I've created at the back of my mind must have burned in the fire. I don't know where I am.  
I hear water. Not tranquil trickling water, but instead harsh rushing, like white noise in my ears. A single dim streetlight glows in the darkness, illuminating the dry and cracked pavement, and as I crane my head to the left I see the long metal poles serving as foundation for the thin walking bridge. I remember now.  
Perhaps tonight is serving as a long deserved walk through memory lane, because I don't know how I ended up here otherwise. This bridge...Pete and I used to come here in our youth. He'd persuade me to cut classes and come hang out with him, and he was adamant that we choose somewhere not frequented by school personnel so I wouldn't get caught. I don't know what was so special about this specific bridge to Pete. Maybe the rushing water had a calming effect on his ever so jittery nerves. Maybe it was just a quiet place for us to be together, who knows?  
I walk up to the edge of the bridge, my fingers tightening around the railing, my eyes transfixed on the water rushing below me. City lights twinkle on the surface. It looks beautiful. I wonder what it feels like.  
I stand and watch for awhile before my mind gets suctioned back into the place it was earlier. I close my eyes and all I see is _Pete_. His smile, is warm encouraging words, his infectious laugh...His lips, his hands, his voice. And all I can seem to think about is how...He mustn't be too proud of me lately. I'm a total hypocrite, and that's being nice to myself. Every day, kids come to me with their issues with self harm and depression and suicide, and every day I look each of them in the face and give them some bullshit lie about how it's not worth it. How it's going to be pointless and meaningless in the long run, how being stable and strong are the best courses of action. Maybe it's not complete bullshit. I do want those kids to see the light of day again. It's just me that I want dead. Pete must be sick with disgust towards me. 

There's his face again. Blossoming at the forefront of my mind like a little flower. Unfolding and revealing a rosier inside than my own. I smile at the image, noting to myself again that I will never be able to test the waters that were once open and uncharted between us. I'll never be able to kiss him and feel validity that whatever we have is real and uncompromising. That position's been filled, and I was too preoccupied to have beaten her to the punch. 

A chill bites hard into my rear end when I lower myself onto the railing, anchoring myself to the bridge by wrapping my arm around the pillar branching off from the rail. I look down, see the water again, remember how Pete and I would sit in this very spot and tempt fate by kicking and swinging our legs about in the free, open air. Things were so simple back then, I had a best friend who convinced me to be somebody. Right here on this bridge, I remember opening up to him about how I'd planned to kill myself before I turned 21. It was a night much like this one. I'd jumped out of my bedroom window past curfew and met Pete at the end of the bridge. He said he wanted to hang out, which to me at 17 was peculiar for 11 PM. But I didn't argue; I was just excited to be around him.  
I walked up to meet him, and I watched his breath turn to wispy vapour in the air above him while he watched for me. He had asked me how I was doing, and for the first time in forever, I told the truth. I wasn't afraid to divulge my secrets to Pete anymore, he had become a safe place for me. He was someone who cared and I was taking full advantage of that.  
A silence hung between us like ice. He cleared his throat briefly and hoisted himself up onto the railing, patting the empty spot beside him. Initially leery, I swallowed thickly and pressed forward. He looked out at the water, his eyebrows knit together in thought. _What's got you bugged?_  
It was simple and it was quiet, but it spoke volumes to me. I looked down at my hands, nervously fiddled with my hat, cleared my throat half a dozen times before Pete reached across the empty space to touch my shoulder, his hand broad and warm. It felt like a hug.  
So I told him. I told him all about the never ending vortex of depression I'd been facing, how I had a bottle of pills and a razor blade tucked away into the back of my dresser drawer for the day-- whatever that may be-- that I chose to kill myself. Pete was silent through the whole thing. I kept my eyes on my hands, ashamed of myself for being so...Girly. Boys aren't supposed to struggle like this. Or so my stepfather says.  
When I finally take the free in breath at the end of my story, I look to Pete, who's still staring out towards the water, like he's looking for the answers to how to respond. He eventually looks down at his hands and says a very quiet; _I feel that._. And nothing more. I don't blame him for being silent and not knowing what to say. He was barely an adult himself, he didn't know how to act. I left the bridge that night thinking that I might make it through. I don't know if that's how tonight will end for me. 

With trembling hands and a sizeable lump in my throat, I fish my phone out of my pocket, clinging to the pillar tightly for maximum support. I rifle through my contacts and tap on a familiar name, slowly bringing the phone to my ear. A few dial tones pass before a haphazard rustling fills the line followed by my mother's tinkling voice. "Patrick!" She cheers. I almost hear the smile on her face.  
"M-Mom..." I mumble, my hands still shaking.  
"What's that, honey?"  
"I-I'm sc-scared." A tear trickles down my cheek, dissipates on my lips.  
"I can barely understand you, sweetie. I'm at your sister's right now," She says gently. Great. She's upstate and nowhere near the point of being able to be my savior. "I'll call you back later, alright? Love you." 

_Click_

A hollow feeling invades my chest and I'm reminded all too harshly of the fact that I'm all alone out here in this big city. Call Pete? Why? My own mother couldn't care less for me right now, why would Pete care when Meagan is busy giving him everything that I can't?  
Somehow I knew right from the get go that my thoughts would be the death of me someday. Silently, I send up a small prayer, and loosen my grip on the pillar, feeling myself sway forward. The bridge feels a thousand miles away for the split second that it takes for me to let go. 

And subsequently be yanked backwards by my collar. 

My shirt tightens hard around my throat, and I feel like my eyes are bulging out of my head. Next thing I know, I'm flat on my back, looking up at the night sky, my vision still clouded by tears, my lungs desperately grappling for air. Above me, a familiar comes into view and I almost choke on the surprise.  
"What the hell is going on?!" Brendon asks me hurriedly, kneeling down to check me out. I blink a few times against the streetlight and turn into my side, curling inwards. 

Shutting down in t-minus 5...4...3...

"Ryan! Get Pete on the phone!" Brendon shouts backwards at the vehicle I'm just noticing now.  
"N-No..." I plead, my entire body vibrating with fear. "Please, no."  
"Patrick, just calm down. Try not to talk, okay?" 

2...

I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to focus on the noise around me. I hear Ryan's panicked voice on his phone to Pete, the engine of Brendon's SUV purring behind me, Brendon's erratic breath as he studies me for injuries. 

1...

"Yeah, we'll stay with him. Okay, see you in a few, Pete."

Gone.

All emotions other than sadness vacate my body, leaving me trembling on the hard pavement with a throbbing skull and a tear in my eye. I didn't want Pete to have to see me like _this_. He's going to have a heart attack when he gets here. But I guess it's better than him finding me washed up on a shore somewhere, or having to identify my body in a morgue.  
Brendon's talking to me, but all I hear is mumbling. Like that teacher in Charlie Brown with the monotonous, mumbling drone that all the kids heard. I'm surrounded by friends but I've never felt more alone. 

I hear a second vehicle pull up and instantly I know who it is. In an effort to seem more stable than I was a moment ago, I heave myself upright and hug my knees against my chest.  
"Patrick..." Pete breathes, his footsteps drawing nearer. I don't look up. Instead, I bury my face into my knees and feel my body shake with silent, profuse sobs.  
"Patrick, it's me. It's Pete."  
I don't move. Instead I stay frozen in place, snorting back tears and trying to find some form of composure. Jesus Christ, I have never felt so embarrassed in all my life.  
"Patrick, It's me, Ryan. Hey, how are you feeling, buddy?"  
"Don't." Pete whispers. I look up very briefly to see him pushing Ryan's hand away from my shoulder.  
"I got this now, it's okay. I'll call you later. And Brendon? Thank you." He says softly, nodding at Brendon and Ryan's car, gesturing them to leave. At least Pete knows me well enough to know I don't do well under pressure, especially surrounded by people I don't trust nearly as well as him.  
A few breaths of silence are passed, and the tires start turning and they're on their way. The whole world around me suddenly feels deafening. Blood pounding in my ears, the continuous rush of water underneath us, the cautious shift from foot to foot from Pete. It's like I'm on sensory overload now, and I can't turn it all off.  
"Baby," Pete begins, his voice tender and soothing. Baby? That's twice in one night he's called me that, and now, even though I feel snapped in half, it fills my aching chest with warmth. A tingle blooms in the centre of my abdomen and I'm clay in his hands once again. And all he had to do was call me baby. "I'm gonna hug you now, is that alright?"  
I nod, and very slowly untuck my knees and release my arms, but I don't look up. Not for one second, because I know if I look up, I'm going to see his big brown eyes and I'm going to be filled to the brim with guilt and shame.  
His arms are around me in seconds. He slides his hands, broad and warm around my waist, locking them at the centre of my spine, pulling me as close as he can in this awkward position. I reciprocate though, and lock my fingers around his back as well, closing my eyes and sighing. He's warm, and his body's firm and real, and finally I don't have to depend on the memories in my head. I have him in front of me, flesh and bones and blood and all.  
I rest my head in the space between his shoulder and his jaw, pressing my wet eyes against his shirt. One of his hands leaves my back and cards through my hair, his fingertips dancing over the spot that hit the ground when Brendon pulled me. I flinch.  
"Did you hit your head?" Pete asks softly, his fingers retracting. I feel him tilt his head up to look at his fingers, to see if there's blood. I nod slowly, and let him pull away, let him play doctor. It's nice to know somebody's concerned.  
"You're okay. Just a little bump is all." Pete says after running his fingers trough my hair to take a closer look. It throbs and stings, but I guess it's the minor wounds that hurt the most, isn't it?  
Pete sighs, I assume a sigh of relief and rocks back to sit on his rear, pressing his feet against mine. His eyes are fixed on his hands, his shoulders slumped over, his eyebrows knit together in worry.  
"Patrick...Why do you have the incessant need to die?" He asks quietly, keeping his eyes locked on the ground before looking up at me. A concoction of anger and fear and worry is swirling around inside his eyes, and I force myself to look back down. Pete's always been able to say more with his eyes than with his lips and that's what's got me broken up. I feel like I've let him down again, and Christ, I probably have.  
"Because I can't keep going the way I am. I feel like something huge is missing, like someone just reached into my chest and ripped my heart out and left me on the ground."  
Pete sighs again.  
"I wish I knew how to fill that hole for you." 

_Baby, if only you knew you could._

"You were doing so well tonight. What happened, Pat?" He adds, reaching out to touch me. It's like a fire is ignited in my chest while I recount what had happened tonight to set me off. I was almost literally tossed aside like chopped liver because Meagan had walked through the door. To be clear, I don't resent her. She's a very nice woman, but the way things happened tonight just all came together to create one huge clusterfuck of emotions that were too much for me to bear in the moment.  
I take a second. Just a quick second to remember what I thought about up on that railing. Pete and I sitting in silence together while I talked about my real feelings, not fabricated 'really, I'm fine' bullshit. And I remember how freeing it was. How that moment is a lot like this one in many ways. So, why not be open?  
"You filled the spot that was gone. But Meagan came home and it hit me that you're going to stop filling it now that she's home." I answer shakily, in the best way I can. The air around us thickens, and Pete straightens up some, his automatic defence mechanism. Instantly my blood runs cold, my heart starts to shut down again, and my hands begin to shake. I should have never opened my big mouth.  
"What? What does Meagan have to do with this?" Pete asks, his voice taking on a cold note, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I feel scrutinized, raw and wide open. And Pete's my wolf, poised and ready to swallow my heart again.  
I reach behind myself and grab my cellphone that I'd dropped while I was teetering, tucking it into my pocket and rising to my feet.  
"Hello? I asked you a question, Patrick."  
"Fuck, what does it matter anyways?" I spit, turning around and glaring at him. I don't know why I'm so angry all of a sudden, but I think it has everything to do with the fact that I'm the one who nearly committed suicide again and Pete's jumping to defend his girlfriend. "Look, you're already defensive and I've not accused her of anything."  
Pete glares right back at me and joins me on his feet. Suddenly, I feel about an inch tall.  
"Back up. This isn't about Meagan, alright? This is about you. You and how selfish you're acting."  
"Oh, I'm acting selfish?!"  
"Patrick, you aren't thinking about anyone but yourself here!" Pete shouts, his voice echoing through the night. I step backwards, not used to hearing him be so angry with...With me. His face twists up that same way it does when he's feeling backed into a corner. Blindsided.  
"You don't think for a second about how this has effected me. I'm emotionally unstable too and you fucking know that."  
"Don't turn this around to be about you." I growl, clenching and unclenching my fists at my sides out of anger.  
"Listen, Patrick, I'm not trying to turn--"  
"Yeah, you kind of are."  
"Fuck sakes, let me speak, would you?!" He barks. Again, the hot blood boiling in my veins turns to ice in a second. Pete and I have never been always 100% rosy with our relationship. We've had fights that put some to shame. But we always bounce back from it, and as I stand here, woozy from the pain in my head, I'm praying that this is a case of the same thing. Only problem? I don't know if my heart could take another separation in it's fragile state.  
"Did you think for one second about the psychological effect it had on me to find you bleeding out in your bathtub? And now to get a call while I'm with my girlfriend to hear that you tried to jump off a bridge?"  
"Fuck, I'm sorry I ruined your little reunion with Meagan."  
"That's what you choose to take away from that? You're unbelievable sometimes, you know that?"  
Tears form in the corners of my eyes and I will them to stay enclosed inside me. The last thing I need right now is a blatant display of weakness on my hands, something that Pete will ultimately dismiss as a last ditch attention cry for me.  
"You know what?" I say, quiet this time, looking down at the ground. "Maybe I'm being so unbelievable because all I wanted was a hug. A little reassurance from the one person who I trust more than anyone on Earth. Not to be berated and told I'm selfish. Never once did I do anything but hold your hand and talk you through the countless times you thought about or tried to kill yourself."  
"Don't you dare bring that into this."  
"Whatever. I'm ten years late for my death anyways." I spit, turning on my heel and starting off in the opposite direction. I feel like everything's upside down. Like I've been sandbagged and ripped apart and left to bleed in the road. When I heard that sweet little 'baby' fall from Pete's lips, I thought that maybe...Just maybe things would be okay. That I could find solace in the occasional pet name and not need to be affirmed by physicality. Now as I'm storming away with Pete behind me calling me back, tears streaming down my face, I'm aware that whether I get what I'm craving or not, the road ahead is paved straight into hell. 

I'm not counting the minutes. I'm too weak right now for that. I do, however, estimate that I'm about 20 minutes away from anywhere I could even begin to call a home. I'm a pariah, lost and alone in a city I used to feel at home in. Now I'm not so sure I belong anywhere. If not with those I once regarded as close as family, then where?  
It must be nearing 12:30, my bones are tired and the city has a cloud of light drizzle hanging over it. I'm starting to get wet, and I begin to wonder; maybe there's a chance I could loiter around outside a dive bar and get myself some bad ecstasy and just end it here. 

_Stop_

Maybe Pete's right. Maybe, if anything I need to stay alive for _him_ , if I can't do it for myself. My head swells and pulses with dizziness, and I'm stuck in this twilight zone, it seems, unable to tell reality from fiction, unable to see straight. Slowly, I move to sit down beneath an awning where a patch of cement on the steps remains untouched by the rain. I repeat the same motion I had earlier, my knees tucked tight against my chest, my eyes hidden from everything, my ears trying desperately to drown out the endless sounds of the city. All I want, all I _need_ right now is silence.  
I wonder if anyone will come looking for me if I stay out here for the rest of the night. Logic states that yes, it's likely that somebody will come to search for me eventually, but I suppose that it's all a matter of whether or not I want to be found. There's this internal war raging on inside my mind-- I want to be held an coddled, I want somebody to care. But on the other side of the coin, I want to feel neglected. It makes no sense, and of this I am aware, but it's gotta make sense to somebody, right? I'm not crazy, am I...?  
A blaring horn jars me away from my thoughts for a brief moment, and I peer over the rims of my glasses and spot Pete, hanging out of the window of his SUV, his eyes locked on me. All of a sudden, I feel stripped-- exposed and naked for him to see, in the most emotional sense. He opens his palm and slaps the rain slicked door of the car and calls out to me.  
"Patrick, it's pissing rain. Get in the car." He asks, a hint of exasperation very heavy and apparent in his voice. I reveal more of my eyes, finally tilting my head up to level with his.  
"It's barely raining," I correct, heaving a long, tired sigh, my breath condensing as it leaves my lips. "and besides...What do you care anyways?" I add, tucking my face back down into my kneecaps.  
"Patrick...Please. It's cold, and you're gonna get sick, and you're scaring me, okay? Just get in the car so we can talk. Please." Pete's voice is calming, and I hate it. It's like a virus, seeping into my blood and filling me with fever. What feels like mere moments ago, I was cursing his very presence on that bridge, and now? Now I'm hearing his pleading voice, smooth and inviting and I want to do nothing but curl up inside the warmth of his heart and stay there for the rest of my days.  
Pete Wentz is a master manipulator, and I'm the little spider that's stuck in his web.  
I look up from my knees once more, my eyes softened considerably, my walls of defense tumbling down with every second our eyes are connected. Slowly, I unfurl myself once again and rise to my feet, shakily trotting down the steps to the vehicle. Swinging myself in, I don't speak, or really even do much else than click my seatbelt into place and fold my hands in my lap. The car lurches forward as Pete turns back into traffic, which has come to a standstill. The city, or this part of it anyways, is quiet for tonight. Shops and businesses remain dark and with their 'Come again!' signs flipped to front while tall skyscrapers glitter just beyond them. On the street walk in the narrow beams of light provided by the street lamps and neon signage on windowsills damp sheets of yesterday's newspapers drift up on the breeze and then settle back down a few feet away. Shady folk prowl the alleys, men in dark sweaters, women in fishnets, draped in glitter with nicotine stuck between their lips all wandering around wondering if they'll make a quick buck tonight. If they'll pay their bills next week.  
With unrelenting force, it hits me; the city I love is not the city I know.

Silence fills the cab and I'm chewing nervously on my lower lip, the metallic taste of blood spreading over my tongue every now and then. I glance out the window each stoplight, watching Chicago change on either side of the endless white lines in front of us. Pete clears his throat.  
"I'll pack quick. Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair by two." I mumble bitterly, placing my elbow on the window ledge.  
"Patrick, stop." Pete says, this time a tad more firm. I follow a water droplet on its journey down the window.  
"Look, forgive me for not understanding right off the bat, but you have to help me out here. I can't help you if I don't know how." Pete adds earnestly. Oh, how did I become so fortuitous to have such a doting companion?  
I pull my eyes away from the city for a moment, watching Pete's turn-off to go home turn to nothing in the review mirror.  
"I don't know what's wrong, Pete. If I knew, we might not be in this situation." I answer truthfully, now resting my head against the leather headpiece, my eyes fixed on Pete. I start in his hairline, watch his temple twitch when his jaw clenches. I move down his jawline, bumping over his stubble and finally I move across his cheek and down to his mouth, where he too is gnawing nervously on his lip.  
"I don't know, Pete. Maybe I'm...Afraid of living. Everything's changing and I'm afraid of letting it, I guess." I say finally. It feels nice to speak so openly, so confidently about the issues plaguing my mind for once, not having to hide behind the facade that I uphold. The weight hasn't left my shoulders yet, but we're getting closer and closer.  
"Why do you hurt yourself though?"  
"Because it's the one thing that I can control."  
Pete's quiet then, his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. The next breath that I draw in is laced with ambivalence, and I sense this coming off of him in waves. Instead of leaving us in dead silence again, he utters a quiet noise akin to that of a whimper. A pang of compassion rocks my core and I once again feel the warm sting of tears behind my eyes. Stepping outside of the realm of understanding oneself is difficult at best, although required. When I leave my emotions in a heap at my feet and devote my thoughts to Pete, a sense of despondency washes over me, but not from the recipe box of my own feelings. Instead, I peek inside and find the hundreds of things Pete must be going through at the moment and suddenly, I'm not important anymore. He's doing enough worrying about me for everyone could possible hope for. 

"You know, Patrick...I've been around the block of life more times than either of us could count. I've been so unsure of so many things in my life, in my music, in art, in relationships. But the one thing I've always been more than sure about was you. You've always been my little diamond in the rough, you know? I've always believed in you, and believe me now when I tell you that there's a reason you're well past your death date. You're sick right now but, baby you _inspire_ people. Kids that were just like you. Don't you see how incredible that is? And I mean...On a more personal note...Maybe I'm talking out of my ass here but I think sometimes that we exist to help one another." Pete says, his voice raw and honest. I feel my skin prickle with tiny goosebumps, my heart hammering against my ribs at his kind words. Not to mention there was that 'baby' again, sending my head into a tailspin. I don't know where that came from, but I'm not complaining about it. He cares so infinitely about me, someone who doesn't deserve one bit of his compassion or his understanding, or his endless companionship. I could live endless lifetimes and nothing I could ever do would allow me to deserve a friend like him.  
With Pete's words ringing in my ears and the city lights on my eyelashes, I smile. He's the light at the end of this dark tunnel that I'm trudging though, I'm sure of it. He's--  
"You missed your turn," I remind him quietly, hoping to derail the train of thought being fired up in my brain.  
Pete shakes his head. "No, I didn't."  
"But your place is--"  
"We're not going home, Patrick. We're going _home_."

As urban Chicago disappears behind us, suburban Chicago welcomes us with open arms. Houses and homes in neat single file rows line either side of us. The streets are familiar to me, and when we pull into the driveway of a darkened home the same as any other on the street. A smaller, more affordable looking version of a New York brownstone lights up when the nose of Pete's SUV creeps into the driveway.  
"Your mom's?"  
"Yeah. You need time away from everything and mothers always have the best remedies for such a thing, don't they?" Pete says, unbuckling himself and snagging his keys from the ignition.  
"But it's one in the morning. Won't she be sleeping?"  
"Maybe, but she'll understand. Trust me on this one."  
I follow Pete up to the front door and feel my whole body turn red with sudden embarrassment as he knocks on the door. Inside, the small Schnauzer that I remember from years ago barks angrily at the door, and a heavy set of feet lumber down the steps. Pete and I stand in awkward silence, for a moment, his words still bouncing around inside my head. Like it's a record that's bound to get stuck in my head, I'll play it on repeat until it's worn out. I was sad, alone and fearful of my own future, and while I still am, Pete's very presence is cushioning the blow.  
The door opens and a tired looking woman peers at us with squinted eyes. "Peter," she says, her voice thick with sleep. She brings a hand up to push her graying hair out of her eyes. "It's one o'clock in the morning. What in heaven's name are you doing?"  
"Patrick wasn't doing so well. I was wondering if we could crash here for the night." He explains. Her eyes drift to me, standing aside Pete, my eyes still likely red from crying, my hands jammed uncomfortably into my pockets.  
"Of course, of course. Come in, boys." She says, finally stepping aside. I haven't been in the Wentz family home for awhile now, but it hasn't changed from what I remember. The same old annoying dog trots around with an air of superiority about him, the same photos of their children line the walls and the mantle, the furniture even looks to be in the same place it was years ago. It's warm, and familiar. Like a hug from an old friend.  
"Can I make you boys anything to drink?" Mrs Wentz asks, waddling towards the kitchen, her fingers tightening the belt on her robe.  
"That's okay, mom. Go back to bed, I'll take care of us."  
"No, no. I might as well, seeing as I'm up now. Patrick, would you like a tea?" She asks, turning to me and flashing me a knowing smile. Instantly I know where Pete got his winning grin from.  
"Please," I confirm with a nod.  
"I'll take one too, thanks mom."  
"You're welcome, sweetheart. Go make yourselves at home in the sitting room, boys." She says, waving her hand in the direction of the living room before disappearing into the kitchen.  
Pete flicks the switch on the wall and lets the room become illuminated, and the home feels warmer automatically. Far warmer than my own childhood home, anyways.  
I watch awkwardly, fingering my jacket's zipper while Pete finds a spot to relax. He looks over at me and pats the empty space beside himself for me to join. In the best situations, I'd have been leery to treat a home that isn't mine like I belonged there or as if I had a right to treat it like it was my own. But Mrs Wentz has never done anything but make me feel like one of her own. Here, I am family. Here, I belong.  
I join Pete a short moment later, tugging my hat off the back of my head. I feel Pete's eyes on me, but I don't look up. Instead, I look down at the embroidering on one of the throw pillows at the end of the couch because I know that if I look him dead in the eye, I'll smile, I'll blush, and I'll dig myself in deeper. It's like I'm a smitten teenager again, blushing like a schoolgirl over the word 'baby'. What's happening to me?  
Pete opens his mouth, draws in a breath to say something but his mom appears in the entranceway to the kitchen with two black mugs in her hands. Pete moves to grab them from her, promptly kissing her on the cheek.  
"Thanks, mom."  
"You're welcome, dear. Patrick, sweetie, you're welcome to the guest room. I'm going to bed now. So don't you be causing a ruckus."  
"Quiet as a mouse, mom, don't you worry."  
"Goodnight, Mrs Wentz." I say, holding out my hands for the steaming mug Pete holds out for me. She nods and smiles sweetly over her shoulder before starting up the stairs.  
"Patrick," Pete says, setting his mug down on the table. I look up from mine, and squint against the foggy glass. As I'm about to reach up to clear them, Pete reaches forward and gently pulls them off my face, setting them aside. He's a little blurry now, but I can see the shy smile on his face plain as day.  
"We don't have to talk now. But we're going to have to sometime." He explains, throwing one arm up over the back of the couch.  
"I know. Can we just relax tonight? My nerves are everywhere."  
Pete doesn't need to ask why, he just nods and tilts back, looking at the ceiling.  
"What about Meagan?" I add, picking up my mug and leaning back into the cushions with it.  
"Don't worry about it. Tonight I want to focus on making sure you're okay." He says, looking down at me. His foot knocks against mine on the floor, and I feel my heart leap into my throat.  
"Oh. Okay, thanks."  
"Why are you thanking me?"  
"Cause you opened your home to me at my weakest. Your mother's home. I gotta say, I feel more at home here with you than I do at my own home."  
"That's the point." He says sincerely, taking a small sip of his tea, flicking the little tag absentmindedly.  
The two of us make small talk for awhile. I gotta say, Pete's got this uncanny knack for making me forget everything. He's cracking jokes left right and centre, he's flipping channels and making his own comedic commentary on every program he passes, he's pulling me in with every joke, every laugh. It's taken me years to realize it, but here in Pete's mom's living room, I realize I've been hooked on him for years.  
Around 2:30, my eyes begin to get heavy and I start leaning uncomfortably against the arm of the couch. Pete laughs and nudges at my hip with his knee.  
"I won't be offended if you wanna head to bed." He says, his eyes fixed on me.  
"You promise?"  
"Cross my heart."  
I smile and sluggishly pull my shoulder blades into the middle of my back.  
"Night, Patrick."  
"Night, Peter."  
"Fuck off." He laughs.  
My heavy heart is soaring. 

I'd assumed that sleep would come to me swiftly when my head hit the pillow, but I'm mistaken. Initially I wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that I'm not in a bed I recognize but that option is ruled out when I remember what I do for a living. The reality of my not being able to sleep, even now at four in the morning, is that I'm alone with my thoughts again, and they won't slow down long enough for me to catch up. I'm thinking about everything from the bridge to the bloodied bathtub, to the man in the room down the hall with more wisdom than I could ever hope to have.  
The longer I stare at the wall that I can't see in the darkness, the longer I feel like I'm slipping back into the same frame of mind I was trapped in earlier. Pete's Pete. With Meagan and Bronx and no more romance left for me. It's a classic case of depressive 'Why can't I have him?' and it sucks, but I'm human and I have feelings that I can't erase. No matter how much I wish I could some days.  
Speaking of Pete, as I fixate on the darkness again, my ears pick up the faintest of sounds.  
"You too could own the Magic Bullet for only three easy payments of $19.99!" The television drones from downstairs.  
"Can't sleep?" Pete asks quietly, as I appear at the entrance to the living room. He's in roughly the same spot I left him almost two hours ago, his arm slung over the arm of the couch, the remote gripped loosely in his fingers.  
"I could ask you the same thing."  
He smirks in response, his eyes giving a few slow, heavy blinks.  
"Come on," I prompt, holding my hand out to him, waggling my fingers. "let's go to bed."  
"But this infomercial got me interested, man." Pete laughs tiredly, lethargically pulling himself up from the couch. I help him clean up in his sleep drunk state, taking the mugs to the kitchen, folding the throw blanket he'd pulled down from the back of the couch, and turning out all of the lights and the television. Pete trips over his own feet on his way up the stairs, but catches himself on the banister, and I have to clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. It's like we're fucking toddlers.  
"You good to go?" I ask, holding Pete up by the shoulder so he doesn't sway.  
"Yeah, I'm good." He answers, his voice cut off by a long yawn.  
"But come here, I wanna show you something." He says, gesturing for me to follow him down to his bedroom.  
"Can you show me in the morning?"  
"No."  
Rolling my eyes, I follow him down the short hallway and into his childhood bedroom. When he flicks on the light, posters of bands like Rancid and Morrissey dot the walls, their eyes looming. How on Earth did he ever sleep in here? The room looks like it never changed since Pete left. Like life kept on churning but this little sector of his youth remained the same. A smile comes to my face when I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Pete's record player, a stack of vinyls sitting on the floor beneath the table it's sitting on. I can see the two of us, young again and sitting on his floor with the records playing as ambiance while we talked about our futures.  
"What did you want to show me?" I ask quietly, kneeling down and running my fingertips over a vinyl of Abbey Road.  
"My room."  
"That's it?"  
"I don't know...It hasn't changed at all. I thought that was cool." Pete says tiredly, sitting down on the edge of his mattress. He has a point; it is pretty cool that this is a place stuck in time, it seems.  
When I look back to Pete, he's pulling the white wires of his headphones out of his pocket and plugging them into his cell phone, only putting one into his ear.  
"Come lay with me." He asks, laying back on the mattress, placing his phone on his chest, his fingers drumming the empty space beside him.  
"What?"  
"Come on. It'll be like when we were kids except you know, it's MP3s instead of Walkmans."  
I distinctly remember times when Pete and I would share headphones and lay down together, forgetting everything for awhile, and maybe that's what we both need now. Quality time with each other has always proven to be the perfect medicine to both of us in the past, so why not medicate ourselves again when it's obvious we both need it?  
I inch closer to the bed, hitting the light before I actually lay down. When I do, his body is warm beside me and I instantly feel inclined to gravitate into that warmth. It's not as though I have much of a choice, however, considering this bed seemed a lot bigger when we were younger. There's room for both of us, but we're in very close proximity. However, I can't say that's a bad thing. He holds out the earbud for me and I plug it into my ear as I settle down onto my side, facing Pete.  
"Either we got bigger, or this bed got smaller." I laugh, scooting closer so as not to topple over the edge. It's dark in the room, but the light from Pete's phone coupled with the pale moonlight drifting in from the window provides enough light for me to catch a glimpse of Pete's smile.  
"If we got bigger, it wasn't by much." He laughs, scrolling through the selection of songs in his phone. Finally, he lands on a slower tune, the classical Hotel California. The guitar opening fills my ear, and even though Pete's eyes are closed, I can't seem to take my eyes off him. He's effortlessly beautiful to me, and I don't know why. Maybe it's the way the moonlight dances on his skin, Or the way my heart throbs with his voice purring in hums of each word of the song, or the way his eyelashes look when he opens his eyes. Maybe it's the way our feet touch at the end of the mattress and I feel less alone.  
Eventually his humming turns into slow, even breathing. I watch the rise and fall of his chest for awhile, wondering what it would feel like to rest my head there and feel the steady thrum of his heart, what it would feel like to let that be the only beat that carries me into slumber.  
The song transitions into a song I recognize all too well. 

_"Angel, Angel, don't take your life tonight"_

The voice is soothing in my ear, and the words send a chill down my spine. It's been years since I've heard it, but it's an awfully strange coincidence that the one Morrissey song that plays on shuffle is the one with the most relevance to tonight. 

_"I will be here. Believe me, I will be here...believe me"_

My eyes drift back to Pete, and I outline his features much like I had in the car. His disheveled hair, his dark eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks, his perfectly shaped nose, and finally; his lips. His full, pouty lips that I've been craving all night.  
I don't know what's got me so bugged, so fixated on Pete, but I don't want to argue it because feeling like this makes me feel like I'm 17 again. My eyes trail down to his chest again, where I watch his breathing for a moment longer, wondering if I should dare push my own envelope.  
No, I can't. I couldn't possibly.  
But I can, and the opportunity is wide open.  
They say that curiosity killed the cat. I suppose I'm the too-curious cat who's going to get themselves into a world of trouble one of these days.  
Gently, so as not to wake him, I slide up, my eyes fixed on his lips yet again. My heart is pounding, my stomach is twisting up into knots, and I think briefly about abandoning the mission, but I stay true. One little kiss wouldn't hurt would it?  
I watch him for a moment longer before swallowing the thick lump in my throat and bending down, my lips just barely meeting the corner of his mouth. 

_"Some people have got no pride. They do not understand the urgency of life. but I love you more than life."_

The song plays on in my ear, and I don't move. This moment, though Pete's unconscious, is organic. It's raw and it feels so undeniably _right_. His lips are soft, warm and alluring. It's everything I ever imagined and he's not even awake to share in the feeling. When I pull away, I keep my eyes trained on him, and I can't be sure in the dark, but I swear I see his lips twitch upwards into the most silent, most barely there smile.  
Though I should be feeling depressed that this is a one time thing, I don't think about the fact that I can't have him. My brain is exploding with colorful fireworks, each of them a different emotion, and none of them are bitterness.  
I possess a secret now. My own secret that I'll take to the grave, because a home wrecker I am not. 

I lay back down and gingerly turn onto my side, facing away from Pete, my smile absolutely irreversible. The song drones on and on in my ear;

_"I love you more than life, I love you more than life."_

I'm drifting in and out now, the high from the kiss wearing off, and the night starting to take over my body. As my limbs turn to lead and my mind turns to dust, I feel a hand on my hip, and I'm certain now; this is the safest I've felt all night. 

_"I love you more than life, I love you more than life."_


	10. Totally Gay For Pete Wentz

**Patrick**

 

There's a hand around my throat.   
   
At first, the fingers were calm, unflinching. Now, however, they've tightened, twisting around my windpipe until the final shred of air is squeezed out.   
  
I do mean this in the most metaphorical sense. My therapist— though she may want to— would not  _actually_  strangle me.   
   
As I sit here in this expensive leather chair, the atmosphere in the room is seemingly growing thicker with every passing moment. The expansive bookshelves with hundreds of books likely unread seem to be closing in on me all Indiana Jones style, however I am not clamoring to find the switch to stop the mayhem, I am accepting and welcoming of my fate with the most nonchalant demeanor I can manage. Bring it on, O' Evil One! Crush me! See if I care!   
   
Inside I'm screaming.   
   
She's babbling now. Elaborating on questions that I have no intention of answering. Something about my childhood I think, which makes me wretch at the very thought of. Childhood is no-man’s land, so to speak.   
   
"So how have you been in the last week?" She asks like she actually gives a shit about my wellbeing. That's the downside of talking to a therapist—you're given false sense of hope, thinking that there's someone out there who wants to listen to you. The reality of it is that they're counting the minutes until they can leave too. They're paid to analyze you, give you drugs and send you on your merry way. Well, and you know,  _actually_  provide you with solutions but the odds of that happening in a therapist's office seem bleak to me.   
   
I shrug in response to her question, looking away from her and to the wall where her fancy degrees hang in cherry oak frames. For a breath, I feel sad for her-- spending her entire life working towards the world's unhappiest profession. I shouldn't say that, maybe she is happy in her line of work. Happiness just seems uncommon in an occupation so full of depressiveness.   
   
"This only works if you contribute, Patrick. You've been sitting there sighing and shrugging for the better part of twenty minutes." She points out, tapping the end of her pen impatiently on the clipboard poised over her crossed knee. I wonder sometimes what she's writing down on those thin, blue lines. If she's making useful notes or if she's pulling that cliche sitcom move where I ask to see the page and it turns out she's drawn a boat because she's too entranced by the fact that she's banking in on her salary and taking a cruise to The Maldives.   
   
Or, y'know I'm totally over thinking it.   
   
In favour of speeding the process along, I guess a little bit of interaction is going to go a long way. Or, at least I can hope. Instead of my usual shrug, I offer a (you guessed it, ladies and gents) shrug  _and_  a nod.   
As expected, she isn't too impressed with this, her expression changing from a little fed up to a lot fed up.   
   
"Patrick, I want to help you. I like you. You're charming, I think. When you're not forced to sit in a room alone with me for an hour per week. But you need to give me something to work with or we're driving this proverbial train over the bridge here." She explains, obviously desperate for me to say  _something_. Sighing, I finally mirror her sitting position and lock my eyes to her tiny frame, looking like the chair is going to swallow her whole.   
"Alright, doc. Hit me. What'cha got for me?"   
   
Hurriedly, she flips the page on her notepad, and I gotta say that I'm a little disappointed in the fact that there was not a drawing of a boat.  
Her eyes skim over the previous notes, and her eyes peer over the rims of her glasses at me questioningly.  
"What about Pete? It's been some time since you talked about him last."   
   
I thought talking about him would be avoidable. Apparently I was sorely mistaken. I look up from my hands long enough to look at my therapist, and her body language is screaming at me that she doesn't have the patience to sit and dawdle around about it.   
   
I hadn't put much thought into anything since that night. I'd come to terms with the fact that I could no longer look at Pete without feeling an unwelcome fluttering in my stomach. I hadn't put much thought into the fact that I was doomed to secrecy from the moment I thought it would be a good idea to kiss my best friend. While he was unconscious (but that's beside the point).   
I heave a long sigh, sit up in my chair, and give this whole therapy thing a whirl.   
   
"I kissed him." It's simple, easy, and the words feel like acid on my tongue. Notgaynotgaynotgay.  
   
She's silent, then scribbles on her board, looking back to me after a moment of silence. 

"You kissed him?"  
"That's what I said."   
"How do you feel?"   
   
There, like a bomb in the room, is a question I hate answering. Diving into my feelings is like diving into the black lagoon and getting eaten by The Creature. It's just not a good time for anybody.  
   
"I guess," I begin, dipping my toes in the water. "that kissing him wasn't the worst thing I've ever done. I'd had...I had a bad night, and Pete took me away from it all. I didn't have to worry about anything but feeling better, if only for a night. Pete like, offered me his headphone and while we were listening to music, I turned over and kissed him. That's that, end of discussion." I spout, crossing my arms over my chest.   
   
"How did kissing Pete make you feel?"   
   
How  _dare_  she?  
   
"I don't know."  
"You do."  
   
I clench my jaw to keep from spewing something unintentional. Then it happens. Quiet, and stealthy—I finally take my fucking therapist’s word. I hadn’t thought about it before now, but I did feel a whole lot more than just something that night.

It seems like so long ago, yet at the same time, I’m filled with a sense of familiarity, closing my eyes, and I feel everything. The way Pete’s lips felt, how he smelled a little like rain and coffee beans, how my heart snapped against my rib cage the moment I kissed him.

Not gay. But totally gay for Pete.

There’s a few things that you can never take from a person. One being their sense of security, and let me tell you, boys and girls, I have never felt as safe in my life as I have when I am with Pete Wentz. He’s got these big arms that just make anyone, let alone myself, feel safe. And his big heart. Lord, that heart of his has enough sunshine inside of it to power the world for years, I’m sure of it. If not…Well, at least it has enough warmth to keep me smiling through the long night.

“It made me feel…Worth something.” I answer back, the left side of my mouth daring to twitch up into that trademark Stump half-smile. My therapist smiles at the change in attitude.

“Why don’t we start there?”

***  
  
Doctor Reed had renewed my prescription before I left the office. I walked out onto the windy streets of Chicago with a heart full of regret and a pocket full of pills. What a wonderful combination, no?  
I wondered as I plodded down the street, my fingers twisting and screwing the bottle cap back on in the pocket of my jacket, if she’d made the right decision trusting me with this. The air is cold, and I am lonely, but that’s nothing I’m not terribly used to by now. I’m always cold, and lonely.

It’s been a little over a week since the incident at the bridge, and I am happy to report that Meagan and Pete are as close as ever, and Pete and I’s relationship feels like it’s crumbling beneath my feet.

If we’re being honest, yeah, I am happy for him. I’m glad that he’s got somebody to be with, to share life with, even if that somebody isn’t me anymore. Though, was it really ever me?

Meagan is a sweet girl. She’s nice to me, most of the time. She cooks and cleans up after us boys, even when I offer to pick up the pieces of our mess, and she’s kind to Pete, which is all I’ve ever been wary of in his past relationships. Were they in it for the money? Or for Pete?

That being said, while I do think Meagan is a lovely girl, I can’t help but feel this nagging jealousy pulling at my heartstrings every time I walk into the kitchen, and Pete’s holding her from behind, his nose pressed in between her shoulder blades, or the way that I walk into the room at the wrong time and catch them with their lips locked. It’s normal, they are a couple. I’m aware of this. But I guess that I can’t let go of the hope that maybe one day that would be me.

At first, I’d wondered if he was just playing hard to get—in the unlikely event that he was actually awake for that kiss. And who the hell knows, maybe he still is. It just feels isolating when you’ve got no other choice but to play the third wheel for days on end.

Pete Wentz has this uncanny way of pulling me in without doing much of anything. I detest it. I detest the very way that his big, hazel eyes can reel me in, chew me up and spit me out in a matter of seconds. I think maybe that that’s what love looks like, but then I’m shutting myself down. Pete Wentz could never love someone as sad and miserable as Patrick Stump.

With time to kill before I’m heading back to Pete’s (Meagan was flying out on a job today, and he low key informed me to make myself scarce), I gradually make my way back to the bridge that I’d tried to jump from, the bridge from our youth.

With my jacket pulled tight over my chest, and my breath visible in brief wisps, I look over the green railing, down at the dark water. It looks icy, uncompromising. The water flows, flows, flow, never stops, and I can’t help but wonder just how many souls mine would have been swimming with if I had made the jump a second sooner.

Truth be told, I’ve got a lot more on my mind than just Pete, and I feel like a block of lead, weighed down by the severity of everything going on around me. Earlier in the week, Elisa had called me. She’d been staying with her parents down in Arizona… I didn’t know she’d even left Illinois. I remembered my heart swelling when I heard that familiar voice in my ear, how tinkling it’d been. Shy, and nervous. Much like it had been on our first date. Typically male of me, I assumed with a full heart that she was coming home, that she wanted to repair things with me.

Sorely, I was mistaken.

She told me that she’d come back to Chicago to meet with me, among other things. This set my heart soaring. I put on my nicest clothes that weren’t formal, and even did my hair for the first time in a week. She texted me with instructions— ‘meet me @ blondie’s’.  When I was dashing for the door, Pete had perked his head up from the email he’d been skimming over and looked at me quizzically. “Where are you going, Mister Gucci?” he asked with a laugh, his chin propped up on the heel of his hand.

“To get my life back together.”

I showed up early, as I typically do when meeting Elisa. When I push the door to the little café open, I see the back of her head, though. I knew it was her, because I would recognize her anywhere.

I walked up slowly, my feet scuffing against the black and white fifties styled flooring, sliding into the booth across from her. She looked brighter. Tanned, even, and I thought her hair was shorter, though I couldn’t be certain. In her right hand, she held a mug. Plain china, no design emblazoned on the side, no logo. In her left hand, she held a crisp manila folder with a stack of papers inside. My heart shrunk several sizes.

“Patrick,” she began, eyes meeting mine for only a flicker of a moment. “hey. How are you doing?”

She doesn’t even know about the suicide attempt.

I neglected to mention it. What good would it do, anyways? If that folder contains what I think it does, there’s no point in this conversation at all. Fuck the small talk.

“Fine.” I lied. She bites her lip the way she always does when she’s nervous, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the damn folder. “What’s that?”

She looked up to me finally, after the question. She sighed, her shoulders heaving all exaggerated, her breath more exasperated than anything. “Why do you have to do that, Patrick?”

“Do what?”  
“Focus on the bad things.”

I’m not into arguing the technicalities of her words, so I press my lips into a thin line. She looks back down to her coffee and removes her fingers from the mug, idly picking at the cuticle of her thumb with her index finger, dark locks of hair falling into her face. She was artful to me. Now she’s losing that glimmer.

“How are your parents?” I asked through clenched teeth, taking the fork that was wrapped up inside a coil of a napkin, pressing my thumb hard against the metal. She shakes her head.

“These are…Patrick, you know I love you—“  
“Really? So I can’t focus on the elephant in the room but you can?” I snap, my voice low so only she can hear. She blinked at me a few times before she opened the folder, the name of the Law Offices of Simon and Bergeron plastered across the top of the paper, the subheading reading ‘conditions for divorce’.  Fuck this.

“I love you, Patrick...” She paused; as if afraid I’ll interrupt her again. For a moment, I considered doing so, but I keep it zipped. I just want to go home. “but things have been too rocky for us, and I just don’t think we can repair it. But I really, really want to stay a part of your life. You’re a part of me, Patrick… I just don’t think I love you in the same way I used to.”

Fuming, I take the thin ball point pen that she’d carefully placed on the sheets and sign my name in the appropriate places, and just like that, I’m divorced. I slam the pen back down into the folder, slide out of the booth and I stood there, just rocking on the balls of my heels for a moment. “I should have guessed,” I began. “til death do you part doesn’t mean shit anymore.”

Which brings us back to the bridge. It seems that I have the sneaking habit of appearing here when I’ve got the most depressive of thoughts on my mind. I coil my fingers around the railing, and feel the urge to hoist myself up again, but just as I’m about to Pull myself up, I reach up to grab the metal pillar as leverage, and my thumb covers half of a small message, written in worn out black sharpie. Squinting, I pull my hand back, and I’m floored.

‘Not today. – PW’

At first I’m confused. I take my index finger and trace the words. That’s definitely Pete’s handwriting, and of course it doesn’t help that he initialed it to boot.

The two words, though simple, appear poetic to me. Then again, anything Pete does is poetic to me. He could write my name on a potato and hand it to me and I would be searching for the deeper meaning, because that’s the man that I grew up with, he never leaves anything to the simple minded. There’s something behind every word and phrase, which is what I think makes him so beautiful to me.

In an instant, every wall that I’d build up around myself to protect me from the feelings I had towards Pete had been clawed down and I was being mauled by the proverbial carnival bear on the loose. There wasn’t any hiding from myself anymore, and those two goddamned words on that pillar confirmed it all—Pete Wentz is more than a friend to me.

I fumble with the bottle in my pocket again, this time bringing them out to examine. The pills are different, which means she’s prescribed me something new, like I’m a lab rat for her to test her drugs on. The label reads ‘Take one daily’.

I swallow three.

 

***  
  
How I got to my old house is a mystery. I don’t remember walking here, but I certainly don’t remember taking a cab. Maybe I’m in too much of an anti-anxiety, Pete fueled cloud that I’m numbed into non-existence. That’d be nice, alright.

I’ve flicked the lights on, and ignored the buzzing in my pocket for the last hour, thinking that it’s my mom, or my manager, or anyone, really. I need quiet. And what better place to have quiet than in my own old, shattered home? Everything feels eerily still, aside from the wooziness in my skull, but the house itself feels almost untouched, which is strange to me, considering the horror that’s sitting at the top of the steps. Which reminds me—

Slowly, I walk myself up the long flight of stairs, my hand grasping to the railing for stability as I less walk, more stumble. It’s almost like I can hear his voice in my ear—‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’, but I shake my head, and his voice disappears.

When I breach the bathroom door, and flick the light on, any normal person in the right frame of mind would be horrified by the sight before them. Blood mixed with water, dried onto otherwise perfectly white porcelain. Pale crimson staining everything, splashed onto the floor, dripping down the sides of the tub, and oddly? I’m unfazed by it.

I shrug my jacket off my shoulders and let it slide to the ground, again, ignoring the incessant buzzing in my pocket. The porcelain is cool against my fingertips as I lower myself into the emptied tub, looking at all the tendrils of dried blood that surround me. Like I’m in some sort of macabre psychological thriller, and this is the main character’s breaking point where they realize that they’ve got nothing left.  
Note the similarities between reel vs. real?

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my forehead in the little dip between them, heaving a long, tired sigh. I’ve been through hell in the last month, with two suicide attempts under my belt, a divorce, and a developing crutch to my medication. And here, in this bloodied up bathtub, I feel the most at peace. Which reminds me yet again—why didn’t I die?

I hear footsteps. They’re quiet, cautious, and I think for a second that it’s Elisa coming to gather the remainder of her belongings, but when I peek my head over my forearm, I see Pete standing in the doorway with rain on the shoulders of his leather jacket, his shoulders slumped forward. I wince, bracing myself for the onslaught of accusations, but instead, Pete’s voice is soft, scared even.

“How many times are we going to end up here, Patrick?” He breathes. I stretch my legs out, wiggling my toes to relieve the numbness from them. I shrug, look down at my hands and nervously pluck at my thumbnail.

Pete is patient, and Pete is kind. He steps in slowly and removes his own jacket, laying it over the toilet gingerly before he took his seat on the edge of the tub. I look up at him, my eyes filled with worry, worry that I’ve disappointed him again, worried that he’s going to send me to the psych ward again. But instead, again, I’m surprised.

“I was calling you. Why didn’t you answer?”  
“Therapy.”  
“You weren’t in therapy for four hours, Patrick. C’mon, what’s got you bugged? Let’s talk.”

The atmosphere in the room around us shifts from nervous and edgy to delicate and comforting. When I look up at Pete, he offers a smile, one where his eyes crinkle at the edges and his teeth show between his lips, and I feel so enamored by him that I find it hard to move. He moves down into the bowl of the tub, fitting his legs around mine, sitting across from me, and I feel his eyes burning into me. I sigh and sit up a little, my head lolling back onto my shoulders, my eyes now transfixed on the ceiling, tracing the little patterns in the wood.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say finally, the air feeling significantly tighter now that I’m truly considering cracking myself wide open. “why does time have to change so many things about us?”

Pete's knits his eyebrows and cocks his head gently in response to my question. "Change is unavoidable." He answers. Thanks, Pete. Not like I already knew that one.   
  
I bring my arm up to rest on the side of the bathtub, my fingers drumming in a neat line. Glancing down, the gold sparkle of my (now null and void) wedding band. Curiously, I bring my opposite hand up and slip the band off of my finger without much trouble, toying with it in my fingers. "Change is unavoidable." I say, my voice echoing Pete in a monotone.   
  
"Did something happen with Elisa?" Pete asks, leaning forward as if to inspect the ring himself. The ring slips through my fingers and clatters to the bottom of the tub, the shrill sound ringing in my ears long after he ring settled. I shrug in response.   
  
"So what if something did happen? What would change? Clearly not my rosy outlook on life." I answer sarcastically, drawing my head off of the ball of my shoulders and angle it towards Pete. His shoulders are slumped forward, his eyes disconcerted and I can't help but feel uneasy at the sight of his frame tucked into the ceramic walls of the tub with me-- he should not be here. He belongs in a place where he is surrounded by diamonds and gold, not to be bottled up with dried blood and the ghost of somebody I used to be. He deserves more than to hang on to the hope that I'll get better someday. Because that thin thread is becoming thin and frayed, and I'm about to let go.

Pete's hands are moving now, and I'm watching them, fingers outstretched, reaching towards my own, and I feel my lungs seize behind my ribs. His hands are gentle and warm, and I resist falling into it, or at least I try to. I've never really been a match for Pete Wentz. His eyes drift down to the curve of his fingers as they close around my own. "I can't fix what was broken, Patrick. But I am sorry for what happened." he tells me, his voice cool and quiet, his lips forming my name in the most charming way. Meekly, I give him a slight nod. 

In the next moment, his thumb, calloused and worn is brushing over my knuckles, the most soothing sensation that I've felt all day. The sigh that escapes me is chilled. "I don't think that this is a safe place for you." he tells me honestly, his hold on my hands becoming tighter. I feel my walls turning to dust right before him. 

In a last ditch attempt to keep those same walls in tact, I allow my back to stiffen some and my gaze to shift anywhere but Pete. "I don't think life is a safe place for me either." I answer dismally, letting my eyelashes fan neatly over my cheeks. There's a stinging behind my eyelids, but I promised myself that I wouldn't cry. Pete squeezes my hand harder, thumb pressing into my palm. 

"Stop it." he says firmly, his voice quavering some on the words. I squeeze my eyes closed. Not crying tonight. Then,  
"...Please."

And there it is, the dust of the defensive walls I used to have scattering along the floor. 

"Why? You're right, you know. Change is unavoidable. You've changed, I've changed. _We've_ changed. Us, Pete. We're not the same kids we used to be anymore, and that's probably the scariest thing I've ever had to come to terms with," I'm rambling now. My words are coming quick and shaky, and my tears are spilling over my eyelids, and I can't stop the runaway train. We're vaulting over the bridge, and I don't know how to escape. "and I'm scared that you don't love me anymore." 

Pete is silent for a spell, his hands not moving, his breathing slow and even. I want to open my eyes, to rip away from him and to leave this place and never look back. "Let's face it, Pete. I should have died--"

Then it's happening. I hadn't expected something of that caliber, in all honesty. The most that I'd expected was a pat on the back and a smile, an 'it's all okay'. I certainly hadn't expected to feel his lips against my own. For a breath, I think I'm imagining it. It wouldn't be the first instance in which I'd envisioned the two of us with lips locked before, but this is better than anything my dangerous mind could have possibly conjured up. Everything feels different now that he's the one initiating the kiss. I feel like I've missed out on so much over the years, when all I could have done was rip myself open emotionally years ago, especially if this would have been my reward for being an open book. 

I'm feeling things that I have never felt before in my young life. Electricity jolting through each nerve in my body, my bones catching fire in the heat of my heart smacking against my ribs, and of course, the physicality of the kiss itself. Pete's lips are firm against mine, and they're warm and comforting. He's got that whole cherry Chapstick game locked up, and I swear that I've never tasted anything so sweet. To complete the picture, he's gentle. I feel almost as if he's scared. I can't say that I blame him. This is by far the most terrifying experience I have ever had. But it's the good kind of terrifying, the kind that puts four on the floor and kickstarts your heart, the kind where you feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, where you feel like you could climb a mountain and wrestle tigers. 

He's pulling away before I can comprehend the reality of the situation, and he's resting his forehead against mine. Against my neck, I feel his breath, warm and coming in short bursts. The corner's of his lips are turned up into a smile. "Don't," he begins, his eyelashes fluttering some as he catches his breath. "don't ever think that I don't love you. I haven't stopped loving you. I was just waiting for you to see it too." 

* * * 

Pete had helped me out of the tub, and shut the door behind us as we left into the main bedroom, my feet lazily shuffling on the carpet alongside Pete. Our fingers are laced, and if I'm being brutally honest, I feel like a smitten teenager again, totally entranced by the mystery, and the marvel that is Pete Wentz, with his cropped blonde hair, his gentle fingers, and even gentler lips. It's hard to imagine now that I'd gone so long without daring to put myself out there. This feels incredible. Safe, even. Which all along is all I really needed, I think. Safety, security, and the notion that I am, in fact loved. If not by anyone else but Pete. 

He's led me to the bed in the guest room and eases his shoes off at the door. I follow suit and crawl up onto the mattress when prompted, my eyes trained always on Pete's, and even in the dark, I see the light behind his eyes.   
"Lay down, relax. You need it." he coos gently, his hand leaving mine to find the gentle curve of my waist. Fireworks are blasting off behind my eyes, big displays of blues and reds, greens and purples. If Pete had a colour, he would be the serenity of white wrapped in the intensity of fuchsia. I allow my body to relax into the mattress, all my focus placed on the hand that's heavy on my waist. 

Again, without warning, Pete's leaning in to kiss me, and this time I close my eyes and accept the kiss easily, like it were the simplest thing I'd ever had to do. The lazy slide of our mouths is interesting in the sense that something I had once regarded as painfully foreign, I am now welcoming with open arms. Or... Open lips, rather. 

I do have to keep somewhat of a leash on myself. After years of bottled up frustrations, I'm bound to get carried away if I don't monitor myself each time I unintentionally deepen the kiss, or sigh against his lips. Underneath this kiss, though, I feel Pete smiling, and I know that the long awaited feelings are reciprocated. 

Unable to prevent myself from smiling, I let myself, and that's when Pete pulls his lips from mine, but to make up for the loss of contact there, he winds his arm around my waist and pulls me in a little tighter, my chest meeting his. "I think that you've been so hard on yourself lately. You need to relax, 'Trick. I wanna help you relax." he purrs, his voice smooth and warm against my neck, and before I have a chance to respond, he's peppering light and airy kisses to the sensitive curve of my neck. I'm smiling now, wider than I have in a long time, all thanks to this handsome specimen of a man. "That's it, Patrick. Show me those pearly whites." He teased, his fingertips pinching at the skin on the small of my back. My eyes pop open a little bit, and I shove him some, my own arms finding their place around his body. 

"Did you mean what you said? About loving me?" I ask him, eyes adjusting to his big brown peepers in the darkness. There's a little moonlight filtering through the curtains and onto the bed, the stars dancing on his eyelashes for a moment before he turns back into the darkness. He gives me a nod, a reassuring squeeze.   
"Of course I did." He tells me, punctuating the statement with a delicate little kiss. "I've always loved you, Patrick. A really long time ago, I was convinced that you were my endgame, but you, y'know, never felt the same way, or at least never let on that you did. So I moved on, and so did you, and I thought we grew past that. But I guess there's still that part of me that held on to the last thread of hope that you would ever feel something deeper than friendship for me. Lucky me, I guess, huh?"   
Pete speaks and I listen. It's always been this way, even when I was a teenager. He would say something really deep and philosophical and I would listen, and I would ponder his words for hours, days sometimes. Even when he said something ridiculous about his favorite foods, I would always search for some kind of deeper meaning, and most of the time, I would find one. That, or I would figure one out on my own and assume that that was what he meant. 

He kisses me again, his nose bumping against my own. All thoughts are erased again, leaving me completely submerged in the insanity that is this moment, this incredible, exhilarating moment. 

Of course, in the little piece of blissful heaven that we've found together, the anxiousness that this is but a mere one night deal is creeping into the forefront of my mind, leaving me cold and afraid, as opposed to warm and excited. I can't help but shake the image of Pete kissing me tonight, then texting Meagan to tell her he loves her in the morning. Feeling my heart sink down to my toes, I bat my eyelashes some, and nuzzle my nose against Pete's cheek. "What about Meagan?" I ask, my hand blanketing the skin over his heart. He stiffens some at the mention of her name, and his hands stop their movement on my back. 

The silence is deafening, but Pete finally responds calmly; "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it." 

I have no idea what that means, but I'm not going to ask. I feel too good right now to have to worry about the fact that this little action that we're completing is what very well could be the certain end to a separate relationship, and the last thing that I wanted to include on my resume for life was 'Homewrecker'. 

I'll keep my mouth shut, and I'll kiss Pete again. I'll stay awake until my eyes are bloodshot and I can barely hear the bluebirds singing outside my window, when the sky's inky blacks are renewed with oranges and pale blues, and I will relish in the warmth and comfort of Pete's body, because it's all I've been waiting for, for more than ten years, though I hadn't really known it until now. Pete was my missing puzzle piece, and nobody, not even Meagan can take that away from me. 

And I'm going to make damn sure of that. 


End file.
